Stories for Fëanorian week 2017
by Elesianne
Summary: A collection of fics written for Fëanorian week in March 2018, and two sequels written later. The fics concentrate on each member of Fëanor's family in turn and cover many genres including general, family and romance. Update on 26th March 2018: A sequel to Caranthir's story posted as chapter 10 of this work.
1. Maedhros

In this series will be collected the short one-shot fics I wrote for the Fëanorian week event on Tumblr in March 2017. There will be eight chapters which are all independent stories: a fic for each of the sons of Fëanor as well as one for his grandson Celebrimbor.

The fics are all rated K+ or T and their genres vary from fluff to angst to romance. The notes at the beginning of each chapter contain infomation and potential warnings for that story.

* * *

 _ **Day 1, Maedhros  
**_

 _ **Summary:** Maedhros discovers that one never really forgets what one learns in youth when he comforts scared children with a song, near the beginning and near the end._

 _ **Length:** ~2,200 words_

 _ **Characters in story:** Maedhros, Maglor, Elrond, Elros_

 _ **Some keywords:** children, family fluff, angst, emotional hurt/comfort. No warnings  
_

 _ **Fëanorian week prompts:** childhood and adjusting/coping, to some degree at least_

 _ **A/N:** I wrote this two-part fic as a way of figuring out how to reconcile the popular-within-fandom tropes of Maedhros as a) the eternal babysitter and b) the (at least initially) less enthusiastic 'foster dad' to Elrond and Elros._

 _The first, fluffy half takes place during the blissful years in Valinor when Maedhros and Maglor are still children, thus the Quenya names Maedhros=Maitimo/Nelyo and Maglor=Canafinwë/Cáno. I use only Maglor's father-name here because I imagine that was the only name he had when this young. The second half takes place some time after the Third Kinslaying so of course there is angst._

* * *

 **Lullabies**

He leaves his door open a crack and doesn't cover the lampstone, because he knows his brother will seek him out sooner or later and Maitimo doesn't want Canafinwë to trip over his feet in the dark.

Cáno is too old now to seek comfort from servants if he becomes scared of the night while their parents are gone, Maitimo believes, but he is not too old to come to his big brother, certainly not it that brother leaves his door open and light on invitingly.

Their parents rarely spend the night away from their children, preferring to take them along on most trips and to many events, but this time their duties meant they had to leave their sons at home with the servants while they stay at an important party until very late in order to be polite. And Athyallë the nursemaid has her hands full with the newest family addition, baby Turcafinwë, so Maitimo and Canafinwë have manage themselves for the most part.

('But you will be all right, won't you?' had their mother asked at the moment of departure, a flicker of worry in her eyes, looking like she was reconsidering her decision to attend the party.

'Of course they will', their father said, his look more confident if also affectionate.

'Of course we will', echoed Maitimo, his arm around Canafinwë's shoulders, and been rewarded with a smile from his mother and an approving nod from his father.)

It takes a little longer than Maitimo expected for his brother to appear, and he is getting sleepy himself by the time he hears the pitter-patter of small feet from the hallway. He sits up at once and rubs the sleepiness from his eyes.

Canafinwë, wearing a long nightgown and furry slippers that stick out from underneath the hem, peeks shyly into the room.

'Nelyo?'

'Yes, Cáno?'

The dark-haired toddler shuffles closer, a thoughtful look on his face. 'The baby is making noise.'

'He likes to do that', Maitimo nods. Their little brother is a noisy child, whether he is crying in distress or shrieking in delight.

'And his room is right next to mine.'

Maitimo scoots back on the bed to lean against the wall and pats the spot next to him. Cáno climbs on the bed, kicks off his slippers and looks at Maitimo with wide eyes.

'Turco might keep making noise until mother and father come home. I might not be able to sleep. And then I will be tired in the morning and can't go to my music lesson.'

 _Ah, the all-important music lessons,_ thinks Maitimo. He had been jealous of them at first. After being allowed to begin his music studies with a renowned tutor at an unusually young age, Cáno had been so excited that he hadn't talked about anything else for weeks.

But then Maitimo had realised that he was always the one Cáno ran to after coming home from his lessons, bursting with the need to share all he had learned with his brother, wanting to hear Maitimo's opinion when he practised and did his homework, and all had been well again.

'Well, that wouldn't do at all. So you can sleep here with me', Maitimo tells Cáno and sees the worry melt from his expressive features.

'Thank you.' Cáno hugs his brother, and then Maitimo jumps down from the bed and tiptoes across the floor to fetch a cushion from a chair. By the time he closes the door and gets back to the bed, Cáno has already taken hold of Maitimo's own pillow and laid down on the side of the bed next to the wall, covers drawn up to his nose.

'Can I cover the lampstone?' Maitimo asks him. 'Or do you mind the dark?'

'Not when you're here', Cáno says earnestly, and Maitimo knows that the worry for being too tired for his music lesson wasn't the only fear that drove Cáno here. He doesn't say anything though, just covers the blue light of his father's crystal lamp, finds his way to bed in the dark and slides under the blankets next to Cáno's small, warm form.

'Will you sing me a lullaby?'

Maitimo raises his brows, safe in the knowledge that Cáno can't see it. 'Didn't Athyallë already sing to you when she put you to bed?'

'She never sings all the verses. I had to sing the last three myself and it's not the same.'

'Very well', says Maitimo who still likes lullabies though he has been too old for them for a while now. 'Which song do you want?'

Cáno names his favourite, and Maitimo sings it to him in a quiet voice. Cáno hums along at first but soon gets drowsy and just listens, his breath tickling Maitimo's jaw as they lie facing each other.

'There. Are you ready to sleep now?' Maitimo asks when the song ends, stifling a yawn himself.

'Yes, thank you.'

From Cáno's tone Maitimo can tell that his little brother still has something he wants to say. 'What is it, Cáno?'

'I felt a little lonely in my room', Cáno admits after a moment. 'In the dark.'

'You know you could have left your lamp on, or your curtains open. Or just have come and slept here to begin with', Maitimo says, kindly if lecturingly.

'I know', says Cáno and burrows deeper into the pillow. 'But I wanted to try to be brave first.'

'You are brave', says Maitimo and settles the covers better over them both. 'But you are still only little. Goodnight, Cáno.'

The only answer is a sleepy sniffle, and then Maitimo's little brother stills.

Maitimo smiles in the dark and closes his eyes.

* * *

On a stormy night hundreds of years later and an ocean away, and much older and more bitter and broken, Maedhros remembers the nights in his youth when his brothers would seek solace with him when their parents were away, or when one of them had quarrelled with a parent and sought sympathy elsewhere.

Celegorm had usually come to Maedhros in those situations since he and Maglor never understood each other very well, but Carnistir had sometimes gone to Maglor, and the twins in their turn quite often confided in Carnistir who had tried with all his bullheadedness to be a good big brother to them. Curufin had rarely needed anyone aside from their father.

And now they are all gone except Maglor, and even he is away for this particular night, gone to order supplies from a nearby settlement. And the twins, the other twins, no, the third set of twins that Maedhros has had cause to worry over, are crying, probably scared as much by Maglor's absence as the raging storm. They take no solace in Maedhros's presence a few rooms over, and he rather thinks they might become even more scared if he went to their room and tried to comfort them.

The sons of Elwing and Eärendil are no longer afraid of the sons of Fëanor and their folk but neither do they trust them, the only exception being Maglor whose calm manner and lovely songs have lately managed to coax smiles of the half-elf twins. Maedhros they still seem afraid of, and he must admit he has done little to win their trust, to make them less wary of his grim, scarred looks. He thinks Maglor unwise for taking them in and becoming attached.

 _Loving anything is folly for damned men such as we are_ , thinks Maedhros as he tries to ignore the quiet sounds of distressed children.

But the crying begins to get on his nerves, frayed as they are these days, though it is not a loud sound. Elrond and Elros are clearly trying to be quiet even in their unhappiness.

Maedhros tries not to care, but he cannot help contrasting these twins crying uncomforted in a lonely room in the abode of those who killed their kin with the days of his childhood when solace was never far away for an unhappy boy, whether from a brother or a parent or other caring grown-up.

It is becoming increasingly clear that he will not find sleep as long as the children continue crying, and as the storm keeps growing and Maglor will not return tonight, there is no reason why they would stop. Maedhros throws his covers aside and stares at the ceiling for a moment.

There is nothing for it but to get up and go to the children to quiet them down, either by scaring them silent or finding a way to comfort them.

The first option seems more likely to Maedhros when he sees the twins flinch as he steps into their room.

'What's wrong?' he barks, painfully aware of how different his voice is to Maglor's gentle tones. Yet he used to be so good at this, at dealing with children.

 _Children who are all gone now_ , a voice at the back of his head reminds him. Maedhros forces the bitter voice away and addresses Elrond and Elros again.

'What is the matter? Is it the storm?'

The dark-haired, wild-eyed children huddling together on the bed nod. Maedhros sighs and sits down at the foot of the bed. There is plenty of space between him and the twins, but they keep a wary eye on him nonetheless.

'This is not the first storm this winter, and like others before it, it will pass', Maedhros explains as gently as he can. It is not easy to be gentle now when he has been pushing that side of himself aside for years.

'Maglor was here before', says one of the boys, Maedhros doesn't know which. He hasn't bothered to learn to tell them apart.

'And what would Maglor do during a storm so that you… could fall asleep?' he asks.

These children are proud in spite of their young age and their circumstances, Maedhros has learned, so he will not mention their fear or crying. This much he remembers of dealing with distraught children. Celegorm would become ever more violently unhappy if anyone claimed he was afraid, he recalls.

'He sang to us', says the other twin, and then, before Maedhros has time to even groan and say _Of course he did_ , the first twin asks if he will sing to them now.

Looking into the young grey eyes that gaze defiantly back at him from a face reddened and streaked with tears, Maedhros agrees to sing before he even thinks about it.

 _This is not a good idea_. All the lullabies he knows are in Quenya, a language that must be hateful to these children if they even know it – Maedhros isn't sure they do – and the few songs he knows in Sindarin are songs of war or drinking, not suitable for scared children.

'I don't know many songs, and I am not the singer my brother is', he tries to stall, and occupies himself by going to throw more wood into the fading fire.

'Maglor told us you used to sing lullabies to him when he was little.'

'It was a very long time ago.'

'Do you still remember them?'

'I do.'

'Will you sing one of them to us?'

Maedhros sits down on the bed again, and this time the children don't shy away from him. 'Those lullabies are not in your language.'

Elrond and Elros look at each other. 'We don't care', says the one who always seems to speak first. 'Maglor sings in the old language sometimes too.'

Maedhros makes a noncommittal sound at that. 'Wait a moment, I'm trying to remember the words.'

The words of Maglor's favourite lullaby arrive eventually, and with them the soft tone meant for soothing fretful elflings. Maedhros stares at the fire while he sings, and if he sees in the flames the faces of those long-ago children he has lost, it is surely just because the 'old language' reminds him of them and not because the burden of their deaths is heavier to bear each day.

Maedhros lets the last words of the song fade into silence before he turns to the half-elf twins.

'Thank you', says the first boy, no longer so defiant.

'You are welcome', Maedhros says, and after a brief battle with himself asks, 'Why did you even ask me? Why would you want to hear me sing? I haven't been especially kind to you.'

The second twin answers. 'You are Maglor's brother, and you are kind to him. And tonight you came for us, and you did not have a sword this time.'

Maedhros doesn't know if it is the partially human blood and nature of these children, or if all children who grow up in a world of war grow up so fast and so wise.

'Maglor will be back tomorrow, or when the storm passes', he promises, not certain whether he means to comfort himself or the twins. 'And I will stay here for the night.'

As Elrond and Elros blow their noses and crawl under covers, Maedhros settles into an armchair by the fire, the warmth of it easing the old ache in his right shoulder.

It sounds like the storm is passing already.


	2. Maglor

_**Day 2, Maglor**_

 _ **Summary:** Maglor's wife died in the Second Kinslaying, yet she still visits him._

 _ **Length:**_ _~650 words_

 _ **Characters in story:**_ _Maglor, Maglor's semi-canonical wife – an OFC called Tinweriel_

 _ **Some keywords:**_ _romance, angst, grief, dreams_

 _ **Warning**_ _for a very briefly described death scene_

 _ **Fëanorian week prompts:**_ _none today_

 _ **A/N:**_ _Maglor lost my 'angst, fluff or something in between' raffle and consequently gets a sad story._ _This takes place shortly after the Third Kinslaying._

 _The Tinweriel featured here is my take on Maglor's semi-canonical wife. She has appeared very briefly in a couple of fics of mine, but it doesn't matter at all if you're not familiar with those stories._

* * *

 **Until the breaking of the world**

Tinweriel still comes to him in dreams, years after she draw her last rattling breath in his arms, and Maglor doesn't know whether to curse those dreams or give thanks for them.

He should have expected them, perhaps. Caranthir once told him, on a night that was dismal even by the standards of Amon Ereb and after he had drunk far more than was his custom, that when he dreamt of his wife who stayed in Aman, it was as if they had never parted.

Waking up was losing her all over again, Maglor's brother had said, the dark depths of his eyes so full of pain that Maglor had to look away, and after he saw Caranthir to bed he went to his own and held Tinweriel so tightly that she woke and asked what was wrong with him.

And now Maglor loses Tinweriel every morning, though even in the dreams he knows she is dead. The two of them even talk about it.

'Why are you still here, with me?' he finally dares to ask her when over three decades have passed since she died and became a regular visitor in his dreams. He almost trusts now she won't suddenly stop doing so.

'I promised you that I would always follow you', she says, trailing her hand in the warm water of the sun-kissed lake by whose shore tonight's dream takes place. The waves lapping at Maglor's feet feel as real as anything ever has.

There is no birdsong though, nor any other sounds of living beings but his own voice.

Tinweriel continues, 'When you swore with your father, I swore to stay by your side.'

She says it like it's that simple.

'I didn't think your promise would carry this far', he says and studies the curling ends of her dark hair, the curve of her jaw, the silver flecks in her grey eyes, just in case this is the last dream.

Tinweriel smiles, and Maglor cherishes the smile. There were so few of those in their last years together; Tinweriel's mouth had usually been drawn into a tight line of determination hiding dwindling hope.

'You always told me that I am even more stubborn than you are', she says.

'Mm.' He twines his arms around her from behind, rests his chin on her shoulder and breathes in her scent. It all feels so real, the warmth of her and the other familiar sensations, yet he cannot forget that it is all an illusion of one kind or another.

He _cannot_ forget the sound of unimaginable pain Tinweriel made when the spear of a Doriathrim guardsman pierced her armour, nor the moment, soon after, when he heard that last horrible breath and saw all light in her eyes fade away.

He closed her eyes then and let go of her lifeless body, yet here she is, asking him whether he is all right. Once again.

'Maglor my love', she says in a tone of concern.

He can't answer; he just holds on to her, praying not to wake but already feeling a chill in his limbs that doesn't belong to this sunlit dreamworld.

'Marriage doesn't end in death', Tinweriel reminds him, her softly spoken words accompanied by the fierceness that always lived beneath her sweet voice. 'Until the breaking of the world, you and I are bound together. That is what we swore to each other before all those other oaths.' She turns and kisses his cheek.

'I am here as long as you need me', she tells him, the touch of her lips on his skin fading away like a whisper as Maglor wakes.

He lays still for a long time, trying to decide whether he is relieved or terrified by her words, before he goes to wake up the twins and lets their bright young voices banish from his mind the shade on the sunny lakeshore in a land that never was.

* * *

 _ **A/N:**_ _It's up to each reader to decide if Tinweriel visiting Maglor's dreams is some strange grace granted by Mandos and Lórien and it's actually her, or if Maglor's bereaved spirit is making up stuff for him out of memories and wishes so that he can cope. I like the ambiguity so I haven't even decided for myself._


	3. Celegorm

_**Day 3, Celegorm  
**_

 _ **Summary:**_ _A young Celegorm finds in the woods all the things he has been struggling to reach._

 _ **Length:**_ _~1,600 words_

 _ **Characters in story:**_ _Celegorm + mentions of family members, Oromë, Huan  
_

 _ **Some keywords:** Genre: gen; hunting, nature, adolescence_

 _ **Warnings:** mentions of hunting and related stuff such as blood, nothing very graphic though._

 _ **Fëanorian week prompts:** hunting, Oromë &Huan, childhood (in a way; Celegorm is intended to be a teenager at the beginning of this piece)_

 _ **A/N**_ **:** _This is a story with little dialogue, a story about learning and growing up and finding one's place in the world._ _Quenya name Tyelkormo used for Celegorm._

* * *

 **The joy of wild things**

At first Tyelkormo thinks it is a punishment for how much he has been acting up recently, his parents suggesting that he go the woods of Oromë for a while and see if he could be the Huntsman's pupil. He thinks they want to send him away from Tirion until the troubles he has caused have been forgotten.

So of course he blows up, explodes into shouting and throwing things. He knows this hardly proves them wrong, but he doesn't care – why should he care about misbehaving with his family when they want him gone?

Luckily his parents have more patience than he does (or rather, his mother has enough for both her husband and her son on this occasion as so often) and eventually they manage to explain that no, they don't want to be rid of him and will indeed miss him very much.

'But I think you should take the chance to see if your calling lies with Oromë, as I found mine lay with Aulë when I was young', his father says, his words calm but his eyes still flashing from shouting back at Tyelkormo earlier.

'It is very clear by now that you have a different calling from the rest of us', his mother says gently. 'We would have you discover it and find contentment in it, as we find contentment in the works of our hands. And we have noticed that you enjoy the outdoors more than any other in our family. You seem so at home among nature when we go on our journeys into the less tamed parts of Valinor.'

Tyelkormo has to acknowledge that this is true. There is something about being surrounded by wild, growing things that makes him feel less restless than the white walls and marble houses of the city where he has lived all his life, and he hasn't been objecting to his parents' plan out of any real reluctance to go to Oromë's house.

So in the end he goes there because, once he calms down, he can see that his parents do mean well. And they promise that if he finds nothing to his liking there, or nothing of worth, he doesn't have to stay long in the woods.

He ends up never really leaving, though of course he spends part of his time in Tirion with his family.

In the dappled, green-hued light of forests and the calm purposeful activity of Oromë's house Tyelkormo learns the things he never managed to master within the city walls: patience, moderation, respect.

Patience is a hard lesson to learn for one as restless and short-tempered as he is. It is also an essential one, for he soon realises that without patience, stillness and silence, a nervous beast he wishes to befriend or slay will bolt and flee from him. He has to learn to sit still crouched in the shadows, to speak calmly and continuously, to move slowly and fluidly, and also to weather disappointments, for the lessons the Vala teaches are not easy to learn, cannot be taken in at one try however hard one tries.

But in the end he learns the lessons of patience, and most miraculously of all, he even comes to enjoy the challenging moments: the hours he spends tracking an elusive beast, the tense seconds he waits with his hand outstretched to see whether a skittish creature will come to him after he speaks to it in its own language, the blink of an eye between releasing an arrow and seeing it hit its mark.

The world is full of possibilities in those moments.

Moderation needs to be learnt because as the Huntsman of the Valar tells Tyelkormo, a hunter must know not only how to kill but also when to kill: there is a right season to hunt each animal, and no animal must be hunted so much that it loses its rightful place in nature. There must be both predator and prey, and there must be a balance. It is the hunter's responsibility as the greatest predator to make sure that the balance is not broken. He never realised it before, but to all creatures but those of darkness Oromë's hunters are not killers, they are guardians.

The wonder he feels when he discovers how many kinds of creatures there actually are in the world, and how unique they all are and how beautiful in their uniqueness, makes it easy to understand the value of a hunter's moderation and restraint. He learns the natures and languages of all beasts, great and small, those that kill and those whose fate it is to die in the teeth and claws of others, and he learns their place in the order of creation so that he can guard it.

He tries to teach this to Curufinwë, later, but it is the only thing the can never make his clever brother understand.

Surprisingly, respect comes easiest of all, the respect that a hunter must give his prey. The first time he sees light fade out in the eyes of something he killed himself, when he listens to it drawing its last breath (a rattling, choking sound that should be ugly but isn't) it is very easy to remember the gestures and words Oromë has taught him. It feels nothing but natural to close the hare's eyes, remove his arrow, dip his fingers in its blood and draw a sign on his forehead, and to thank the animal for its death. To his surprise the words come out a whisper, and more reverent than any prayer he has ever said.

In time he will craft his own ritual words of gratitude to speak in those moments after taking a life, whittle them to perfection like he does with his swift arrows, and teach them to others including his youngest brothers. The Ambarussar never become as close to the lord of the forests as he is, never learn more of the languages of beasts than is needed to hunt them. Even so they listen with bated breath when he tells them the words they should say to honour an animal's sacrifice.

This is as close as he ever comes to writing poetry.

Tyelkormo is grateful for the lessons he learns, for the things he could never reach before. But the best thing of all is that though he learns much, he doesn't have to give up anything of what makes him _him,_ as he felt people wanted him to do in Tirion. His fury and his joy – he gets to keep both, though they are transformed. Somewhere in between all the other things he learns, he also learns to transform them.

The fury he turns into tenacity and perseverance, forges it into the right shape until it is as useful and as unyielding as the steel his father and other kin work. He never achieved much in the smithy under his father's tutelage and never cared very much about his lack of aptitude – though he cared more than he let show – but to Oromë he is an eager and talented pupil. And Oromë's praise means more than Fëanáro's ever did, because these are things he actually wants to be good at, with all his fierce heart.

The tenacity and perseverance give him strength to keep going when he is wet and tired and slightly injured and trudging through heavy undergrowth far from home, to forget these discomforts in pursuit of something greater. They keep him looking for the way out when he thinks himself lost in a strange place.

He channels fury and joy alike into his throwing arm, into the drawing of a great bow, into running as fast as the beasts he pursues. Learning to harness the fires of his mind adds to his already remarkable strength (strength which he never knew to appreciate as he does now) and gives him a wonderful sense of freedom, and of being capable.

He still has his joy that comes to him so easily, and in fact it never arrived more unbidden or more intense than it does under the boughs of the trees or around campfire in the silver shadows of a hunter's night. Delight in the feel of the wind against his face as he gallops through the trees, glee in hitting a target everyone thought he couldn't, merriment in the company of his fellow hunters.

This joy doesn't make him spiral out of control, it isn't to his detriment; it actually helps him concentrate and get what he pursues.

And the most unexpected joy of all, an honour he didn't expect to receive from the Vala who taught him the lessons he most appreciates, is the faithful companion who makes sure he never again has to feel the particularly troubling restlessness of being alone and lonely.

Huan makes the moments he misses his family easier – and, it turns out, the hound also makes the moments he misses the wild woods easier, those times when he has to stay in the city so long and attend so many boring formal events that his skin begins to itch under heavy robes and he longs for the freedom of the hunt. For after he makes an escape from the parties and gatherings, he and Huan race along the night-quiet white streets like the wild things they are, startling the slumbering inhabitants of Tirion.

In the city he is often too much – too loud, too violent, too angry or boisterous – but in the forests and fields he is just right.


	4. Caranthir

_**Day 4, Caranthir**_

 _ **Summary:**_ _The lord of Thargelion has fallen into a pattern with one of his healers, and one day he realises he would like to change that pattern._

 _ **Length:**_ _~2,700 words_

 _ **Characters in story:**_ _Caranthir, Caranthir's semi-canonical wife-to-be – an OFC called Cedweril_

 _ **Some keywords:**_ _romance, tending to injuries  
_

 _ **Warning**_ _for mentions of injuries and blood but nothing terribly graphic_

 _ **Fëanorian week prompts:**_ _lordship, marriage_

 _ **A/N:**_ _I have an ongoing fic about Caranthir courting a maiden in his youth in Valinor, but I also wanted to write about what kind of a wife he might have found among the Sindar in his own realm of Thargelion. This takes place during the Long Peace and is not 'compliant' with any of my other fics._

 _Sindarin words in the text:_ Ai, rhaich! _= Agh, curses!,_ golodh _= a Noldo, plural_ gelydh _,_ Edhil _= the name the Sindarin elves use about themselves._

* * *

 **The way you touch me**

'Of all the bad habits you have, my lord, the worst has to be getting so gravely injured in every single battle that we always meet like this afterwards, me tending to you and you swearing at me.'

Caranthir lets out more fierce profanities as the healer explores an arrow wound, feeling for damage in the surrounding tissue. She ignores his curses and continues her chiding as she works.

'How many times have I told you not to pull out an arrow until someone with at least an elementary understanding of anatomy has determined whether it is better in to fact leave it in until a healer can see to you? You would have avoided quite a substantial amount of blood loss if you hadn't tugged this one out before riding home.'

'I left the other one in, didn't I? You should be happy enough to get to torture me pulling that one out – _Ai, rhaich_!'

She has taken hold of the black orc-arrow embedded in his shoulder. 'Hold him still, Sadron', she instructs Caranthir's attendant who is assisting her while she tends to their lord in his chamber.

'Yes, Mistress Cedweril', answers the young man. He is wide-eyed but his grip on Caranthir's arm and other shoulder is steady enough that Cedweril is able to continue her work.

Caranthir curses at her again while she pulls the arrow out of his flesh. 'Damn you, woman, I swear you do that as slowly as possible just to punish me for imagined infractions.'

'I do it slowly, you foul-mouthed _golodh_ , to avoid causing further harm to your battered body. You take care of that well enough yourself, charging madly into battle as you do every time.'

Cedweril is not trained in war and stays back at Thargelion, tending to the wounded when they are brought back, but she has heard of the battle fury that takes over their lord as soon as he sees his enemy. Yet in spite of his heedlessness in battle he always makes it back to his fortress on the shore of the Helevorn, as if by some strange grace of the gods he defied.

Every time he returns safely it is the cause of much relief among his people, both those who followed him here from the west and those, like Cedweril, who dwelt here before the _gelydh_ arrived with their bright swords and tall shields that keep dark creatures at bay. Caranthir is a strict lord and a tempestuous one, but he rules justly most of the time and he keeps the land safe.

So Cedweril cares for him best as she can, making sure his injuries will trouble him for as short a time as possible, and she doesn't mind his curses, taking them in her stride and flinging sharp words back at him. She hadn't done so the first few times, had bitten her tongue rather than speak impertinently to a patient who is her lord as well, but she soon realised he prefers his healers' manner acrid rather than gentle.

There are many ways to deal with pain, Cedweril knows. For the lord of Thargelion, the agonising moments of staying still while he is hurt more in order to heal him seem to pass easiest when he gets to lash back at the healer.

Some of the other healers don't realise this, she thinks. Their attempts at a soothing and polite manner must be the reason Caranthir has taken to requesting that she be the one to see to the injuries he gathers at every battle.

Still trading barbs with him, Cedweril cleans the arrow-wounds, applies poultices and bandages his arm and shoulder. Satisfied that those wounds should heal well, she turns her attention to his other arm and the long, ragged slash that runs down from the elbow. She cleans it, very thoroughly since orc blades are often laced with vile poisons that can cause trouble even to elves, and then picks up her needle again.

Caranthir pulls his forearm away, cradling it in his lap. 'Surely you're not going to jab at me with that again? You must know that I have other things to do besides being poked and prodded. I need to organise a group to–'

'If you let me stitch this wound, it will heal faster and better and allow you to return to all of your duties sooner, and to pick up a sword yourself.'

He scowls at her but extends his arm again. 'Be quick about it.'

Cedweril knows better than to pay any heed to a patient's opinions even if that patient is her ruler, and takes her time closing the wound with care. During the day her hair has come partially undone from the braid she wound around her head, and she has to blow stray strands away from her face as she works. Caranthir is uncharacteristically quiet; Cedweril suspects that the furious energy brought on by facing death is finally fading.

She doesn't notice it, but Caranthir closes his eyes while the sharp needle pierces his skin again and again and she murmurs quiet words of prayer. For a moment he allows himself to be as tired and hurt as he is, but even then he tries to concentrate on the touch of Cedweril's fingers on his skin rather than the twinges of pain from the needle she wields in her other hand.

She has touched him many times, all over his body, her fingers always deft and competent, her manner brisk and practical. But even though he is always injured when she touches him, he sometimes has difficulty remembering that he should derive comfort at most from her touch, not pleasure and certainly not dashes of desire. Being brusque and tetchy with her helps a little with that, but he can't keep it up forever, and neither can he blame his reactions solely on being light-headed with blood loss.

He must smell of sweat and blood and orc-filth; Cedweril smells of healing herbs, the sharp but not unpleasant scent of them wafting from her hair that stubbornly keeps escaping her braid. He'd secure the curly strands behind her ears for her if he could, if he didn't have blood on his free hand.

He really should request a different healer next time, but he already knows he won't.

Cedweril finishes her stitching and glances at his face before spreading cleansing paste on the stitches, probably worried by his quietness.

'I am fine', Caranthir tells her. 'Just finish your work.'

She sees that the battle fury has indeed faded from his eyes, leaving them dark and deep but still lit by that near-unbearable light that all who came from the west carry within themselves.

For the hundredth time she wonders how much light there must have been in the land of the Valar that it still burns in everyone born there.

She couldn't ask him that, though, so she says, 'Yes, my lord', and returns her attention to his arm. Spreading the paste, bandaging the forearm – then there is little to do but to rub arnica ointment on the bruises on Caranthir's ribs so that they will heal faster. She expects him to protest this as a waste of time, but is glad when he tolerates it in silence.

'You shouldn't have ridden home through the night in this condition', she tells him and hopes her soft tone doesn't irritate him. 'You had warriors with you that have some skill in tending wounds. You should have made camp and let them help you.'

Caranthir shakes his head, a weary gesture of defiance. 'It wasn't safe to stay and rest. We were ambushed once and we could have been surprised again, this time in the dark while wounded and vulnerable. And besides, none of the others were as gravely wounded as me. It was better to ride home.'

'Your wounds are cause for concern as much as anyone else's, if not more', Cedweril says and turns away to gather her supplies back to her healer's satchel, leaving only one bottle on top of the ornate chest next to the bed.

Caranthir wonders if she avoids his gaze on purpose, and whether she only worries for him because he offers the best protection for the land that has always been her home.

(During the short northern summers he has seen her going swimming with the other Sindarin maidens in the lake; they dive fearlessly into the cold, dark water and float among the shadowed reflections of tall mountains and evergreen trees, and their chatter creates quiet echoes that ring across the still surface of the deep lake.

Cedweril's healer's robes and apron are rather shapeless, but Caranthir knows her to be beyond lovely beneath them because he has seen her emerge from the water, grinning with delight, her shapely limbs shining with waterdrops, the shift she strips down to swim in clinging to her graceful curves…)

Gruffly he says, 'I would have been fine if I had been in my mail rather than hunting leathers. Damned cowardly creatures ambushing us from the shadows.'

Cedweril's fingers sweep down Caranthir's arm once more, ostensibly checking that the bandages are securely tied off but her touch doesn't feel as purposeful as usually, and Caranthir hopes that she is doing it mainly to reassure herself that he is still here and well. He takes her next words as confirmation of his hopes.

'You will be fine as it is, and soon since you _gelydh_ heal fast. But you really should rest now, to recover from losing so much blood; will you let me give you a sleeping draught, or at least promise to stay in bed?'

He hadn't intended to rest quite yet, but she speaks softly now and it doesn't enrage him, just makes him want to allay her worry. 'There are a few matters I need to attend to before I can rest, but I can do that from this room. If I take your foul-tasting concoction, I should still have enough time to speak with one or two people before it sends me to sleep, is that not right?'

'I can give you a dose that allows that', Cedweril nods. She takes the bottle she left on the chest and measures a small amount of the dark, treacly liquid into a cup of water. The pungent smell that arises when she stirs the mixture makes Caranthir grimace.

Before she passes the cup to him, Cedweril asks, sounding like she knows the answer already, whether he would come to recover at the infirmary with the other wounded, so that the healers could keep a close eye on his recovery.

'I know asking this is in vain, but I must do it because the senior healer told me to', she adds.

'You're right, it's no use asking. As always I will recuperate in my own room where I can attend to business without disturbing others who need rest, and without being disturbed myself. If I need you, I will have Sadron send for you.'

He nods at his attendant who is currently engaged in cleaning away the bloody cloths and towels Cedweril used, as well as the pieces of the tunic she cut off him. 'You can clean up the mess later, boy. Go fetch Aphador and Magolben.'

The young attendant bows smartly and leaves the room with swift steps to seek Caranthir's steward and guard-captain. Cedweril puts the bottle of sleeping draught in its own place in her satchel and rises from the stool she has been sitting on next to the bed. She tries to pass the prepared draught to Caranthir, but he waves it away.

'Not yet. There are things I need to tell you.'

'Oh.' She is confused. 'Do you want me to find you a shirt? Or to wet a cloth for you to wash some of the blood away?' She gestures at his face, which is covered in smears of black and crimson blood alike.

Caranthir raises a hand to touch his cheek, looking surprised to find the mess there. 'I'd forgotten about it.' He gives a grim chuckle. 'I must be a frightful sight.'

'A little odd at most, with a clean body and a dirty face.' Cedweril had washed most of the blood on his torso and arms away while she checked his wounds, as well as on his thigh where there had been a gash. He is wearing nothing but loose breeches now, and a blanket draped half-across his legs.

'If the way I look isn't very offensive to you, I'll leave the washing and dressing for later. Sit down for a while longer.'

Cedweril obeys but says, 'I do have other patients to see, my lord.' She looks him determinedly in the face, for the sight of his bare body, bruised as it is, and his arms bandaged, is causing some emotions in her that are very inappropriate for a healer to feel towards her patient. And it is odd to sit here like this, not doing anything.

'Just a moment', Caranthir says, and his eyes are on her face as well, dark and intense and bright in spite of the exhaustion and hurt he must be feeling. He never accepts any medicine that would give him relief from the pain.

 _I believe he hates feeling half-asleep and vulnerable, but it would be easier for me if he weren't so watchful right now,_ Cedweril thinks, and tries to push the shameful thought away while she waits for her lord to speak.

'Sometimes in moments like this, after you've stripped me of my clothes and put your hands all over my body to tend to my wounds, I find myself thinking that I'd quite like you to touch me in a different way.'

Cedweril stares at him in shock, though not in horror.

'I'm not asking you to do anything inappropriate', Caranthir assures her with a mild look of amusement. 'Just telling you that one day soon, I would like to spend some time with you when I am not bleeding in five different places.'

Cedweril straightens her shoulders. She can contend with him when he spits curses at her, so surely she can also hold her own when he speaks in this different, unexpected manner.

'Would you like to go swimming with me?' It is a challenge of sorts.

Caranthir is a little taken aback but also very pleased with her answer. 'You have noticed, then, that I sometimes watch you.'

'You don't stare as openly as the other _gelydh_.' She shrugs and sweeps rebel locks of hair behind her ears. 'It makes it all the more noticeable.'

'But you don't mind.'

'It is a compliment of sorts, isn't it? And we _Edhil_ are not as prudish as your people.'

'No, you are not. I've found it fits me very well.' Caranthir smiles crookedly; he is very content with his eastern land in the shadow of the mountains and his people who, Sindar and Noldor alike, are fierce and loyal.

And there is yet more contentment to be found here, and more than just contentment, he believes.

'I would indeed like to go swimming with you', he says and watches Cedweril flush a little. No doubt he is red-faced himself beneath the blood and dirt, but that doesn't matter, not now.

'You should let yourself heal completely first', Cedweril answers, her eyes sparkling like rare sunlight on the Helevorn. 'If you wish to keep up with me in the water, that is.'

Caranthir smiles again, downs the sleeping draught and tells Cedweril he'll see her again when she comes to change his bandages and then, later, in the water.

Before Cedweril goes she presses a kiss, soft but bold, on his dirty forehead, touching him in a different way already.


	5. Curufin & Celebrimbor

**_Day 5, Curufin & Celebrimbor  
_**

 ** _Summary:_** _Curufin tries his best as a father and Celegorm as an uncle but sometimes there are little blunders, such as treating a toddler like a baby animal._

 ** _Length:_** _~1,300 words, **Rating:** K  
_

 ** _Characters in the story:_** _Curufin, Celegorm, Celebrimbor  
_

 _ **Some keywords:** family, fatherhood, humour, fluff, a near-indiscernible amount of angst_

 _ **Fëanorian week prompts:** Celebrimbor, Fëanor (kind of)_

 ** _A/N:_** _I wanted a write a story concentrating on Celebrimbor/Tyelperinquar's childhood, thus I am posting two stories today, on Curufin's day. This first story ended up being mostly about Curufin/Curufinwë and Celegorm/Tyelkormo still figuring out how to be a father and an uncle, respectively._

* * *

 **Ponds, puppies and paternal worries**

'I told you not to treat him like one of the puppies', Curufinwë hisses at his brother. He is livid but cannot shout because in addition to scolding Tyelkormo, he is also trying to calm down little Tyelperinquar who had upon his father's arrival burst into fresh tears.

Tyelkormo also looks slightly worried but makes a dismissive gesture and says, 'He was having a grand time playing with them until he got pushed into the pond. And how could I have known there were sharp rocks in the bottom of your garden pond?'

'You couldn't have known, but you should have stayed closer to him and rescued him when the playing got too rough, you idiot!' Curufinwë hugs his son close but that brings a fresh wail from the boy, so he hurriedly sits him on his knee and starts going through his small injuries, worried that one of them is worse than it looks.

'He's fine', says Tyelkormo. 'One of your buttons probably just scraped one of the cuts on his face when you embraced him. Really, you don't need to check him all over, I already did, and treated what needed to be treated.'

Curufinwë shoots a look of distrust at Tyelkormo but switches to finger-combing Tyelperinquar's dirty hair. 'Didn't give him a bath, though.'

'I didn't have time, you were gone for under an hour!'

'Clearly even that was too long. Shh, Tyelpë, my little one', Curufinwë coos gently, and Tyelkormo would smirk at that display of soft tenderness if he wasn't well aware that his own shortcomings as an uncle have made it necessary for his brother to behave so.

Tyelpë gulps back tears and calms down a little, but Curufinwë sniffs the air close to his son's face, a look of suspicion spreading on his own, then sniffs again. 'Did you treat his cuts with horse liniment?!'

'I might have', Tyelkormo says, a feeling of dread taking over him; he hadn't though there was anything wrong with his chosen course of treatment, but Curvo's reaction is making it sound like there was.

'He is a child, not a horse!' Curufinwë's ire makes him resort to hissing again. 'I know for a fact that there's liniment meant for people in my house as well.'

'I didn't know where that was kept, and it's basically the same stuff anyway, isn't it?' Tyelkormo defends himself. 'The horse liniment just isn't as nicely scented.'

'Certainly not.' Curufinwë grimaces. 'Oh Tyelpë dear, you're having such a long bath very soon.'

'I already had a bath', says the child who has stopped sobbing and wiped his nose on his father's doublet and is now studying the ornate buttons. 'In the pond.'

Both his father and uncle smile at that. 'A proper bath', Curufinwë clarifies. 'In the bathtub. And then nice-smelling ointment after.'

'He doesn't mind the smell', Tyelkormo says defensively because his brother is still giving him dirty looks.

Curufinwë digs a large jewel out of his pocket for Tyelperinquar to play with so that the boy won't tug the buttons off his doublet. 'You said that he was old enough now that you could look after him. But if I had known you were going to treat him like an animal, I would certainly not have left him with you!'

'Tyelpë is fine. You're only scolding me because you know your wife will scold you', snaps Tyelkormo back, his guilt for his nephew's hurt no longer keeping his temper in check. 'You need to think about how you treat him, brother.'

'What is that supposed to mean?' Curufinwë gives Tyelko the dirtiest look so far, though his fingers are still gently stroking his son's hair.

'If you didn't run off to see father every time he sends you a message about – about anything, any small matter, I don't know but I doubt it can be very important every time – you wouldn't have to leave your son with whoever happens to be nearby.' Tyelkormo shoots back a look just as vicious.

Curufinwë cover's Tyelperinquar's ears and asks in a voice dripping with ice, 'Are you saying that I'm a bad father?'

Tyelkormo backs down a little, mentally and physically, at the sight of the fury and misery in his brother's eyes. 'I'm hardly in a position to judge. But I think… there are times when you are a better son than you are a father. And I think you need to think about that.'

'You will excuse me for not taking child-raising advice from an unmarried man who treats children like animals.' Curufinwë scowls, but the worst edge of his unhappy rage is gone. He takes his hands off Tyelpë's ears and the boy giggles, thinking it a game of some sort.

They all sit on the floor in silence for a moment, Tyelkormo and Curufinwë tense, Tyelperinquar oblivious and happy to be sitting in his father's lap when for once he doesn't seem to be in a hurry.

Curufinwë is the one to break the silence. He admits quietly, looking down at his son to avoid meeting his brother's eyes, 'Netyarë has also been saying… what you said. So I probably should reprioritise. Father and I are in the middle of an important project, but it's not this important. Not more important than Tyelpë. Netyarë said that, too.'

'Yes, your wife is right', says Tyelkormo, surprised that his proud little brother would admit to doing something wrong. But then again, since Curvo became a father Tyelko has seen many new sides of him. 'Tyelpë will be little longer than the puppies, but still not very long. You should be present in his childhood while it lasts.'

Tyelperinquar looks curiously at his father and uncle, aware now that they are speaking about him. 'It's broken inside', he says, showing the jewel he's been examining to his father.

'Yes, Tyelpë, it's cracked. I meant to throw it away but forgot.'

'Can I keep it?'

'It is cracked', Curufinwë repeats. 'And you have many perfect ones.'

'Exactly', Tyelpë says like it makes everything clear. 'I don't have any ones with a crack inside yet, only unbroken ones.'

Tyelkormo grins. 'Can't fault his logic, brother.'

Curufinwë smiles too, tension flowing away from him like a wide river. 'No. No, Tyelpë, you can keep it, I said no to uncle Tyelko.'

'Good. I'll add it to my collection.' Tyelperinquar would run off to his bedroom, but Curufinwë catches him and lifts him onto his shoulders.

'It's to the bath with you, pond-swimmer', he says.

'But mama's not home yet.'

'I'll give you your bath today.' Tyelpë's whoop of delight makes Curufinwë smile again. 'We'll just say goodbye to uncle Tyelko and his hounds first.'

Tyelkormo whistles, and on the other side of the room Huan lifts his muzzle from his paws, gets up and shepherds a litter of sleepy puppies to his master.

Tyelperinquar waves a happy goodbye to the hounds, but Curufinwë says drily to his brother, 'The next time you come visiting, don't bring your horde of half-grown hunting dogs.'

'I won't. But Huan is still allowed to come, isn't he?'

'He knows how to behave with children, so yes, he is allowed. In fact, he is probably a better childminder than you. Perhaps I should give all the instructions to him the next time Tyelpë needs watching, whenever that is.'

'Hah', says Tyelkormo with a wince. 'Happy bathtime, Tyelpë.'

'Bye-bye uncle Tyelko.' Tyelperinquar waves at him from his father's shoulders, and they head to the bathroom.

Tyelkormo can hear Tyelperinquar's happy chatter to his father almost all the way to the front door, and it makes him smile to himself. His brother isn't a bad father, just a thoughtless one sometimes.

Tyelkormo counts the puppies to make sure that none of them have wandered away, then lets himself and his canine companions out of the house.

* * *

 ** _A/N:_** _I didn't mean to write a story about little Tyelpë originally, but then the lines 'I told you not to treat him like a puppy' and 'You treated him with horse liniment?!' arrived unbidden in my head and I just had to capture them and build a story around them. This happens to me quite a lot, to be honest._


	6. Curufin

**_Day 5, Curufin_**

 ** _Summary:_** _A private discussion with the king of Nargothrond goes awry in a way Curufin didn't anticipate._

 ** _Length:_** _~2,100 words,_ _ **Rating:**_ _T_

 _ **Warnings:**_ _A bit of mild violence and blood. Blood is even in the title this time. (For some reason I have to warn for blood for half my fics this week…)_

 _ **Characters in the story:**_ _Curufin, Finrod, Celegorm_

 _ **Some keywords:**_ _drama in Nargothrond, unresolved tension (political and otherwise)_

 _ **Fëanorian week prompts:**_ _Celebrimbor, manipulation and ruling of Nargothrond_

 _ **A/N:**_ _My starting point for this fic was that prior to Beren's arrival in Nargothrond, Curufin and Celegorm were mostly good guests and allies to Finrod (this much is canon) but that they didn't always find it very easy._

 _This is Gen on the surface but if you are severely allergic to slash it might be best to give this fic a miss._

* * *

 **Crowns and sons, gold and blood**

Curufin waits by the door of the council chamber while other advisors and commanders file out, a handful staying behind to exchange a few words with the king. Curufin curbs his impatience and maintains an impassive expression, for it suits him to wait the longest and speak with Finrod in private.

Curufin's blood is just as royal as Finrod's, if not more, though he wears a slender circlet instead of a crown. He has no intention of joining the ranks of his cousin's fawning hangers-on, and he spares those no glance when they leave the room, his eyes on the king who is alone at last. With a final glance at the papers before him, Finrod leaves his place at the head of the long table and walks over to Curufin with an enquiring look.

'I would talk with you in private, cousin', Curufin says. _Cousin_ , not _my lord_ or _your highness_ or _your majesty_ , for there are no titles between them. It was the first challenge Curufin posed to Finrod when he arrived with his brother and their people, homeless and weary from hardship and loss. Curufin and Celegorm were landless lords seeking help from Finrod the great king, yet from the day of their arrival they have addressed him only as cousin.

Finrod has given no indication of requiring or even desiring a title from Curufin, then or now.

'If it does not displease you, may we walk together to my chambers and speak there?' he asks Curufin. 'I have spent a long day in this room, and I am heartily sick of the sight of it.'

Curufin's gaze flickers to the beautifully carven walls and painted ceiling but only for a moment before it returns to Finrod, golden and glittering in his finery and regalia. 'It does not displease me.'

They walk along long corridors, high halls and wide stairways to Finrod's apartments, the silence between them broken only in the beginning by Finrod asking whether it is the last, contentious point raised in the meeting that Curufin wishes to discuss. Curufin answers that it is, and that is all that is said before they reach Finrod's rooms.

Curufin cannot help but think once again of how Finrod seems fully content with how things are, with Curufin and his brother and son and their people staying in Nargothrond as his guests, Finrod receiving advice and aid from the sons of Fëanor. Finrod's generosity appears to extend even to not begrudging the influence they have come to wield among his own people.

Curufin is the one who cannot be content with how things lie. He is restless, and he cannot help envying all that Finrod possesses that Celegorm and Curufin, princes of the first house of the Noldor, have lost.

Finrod doesn't take Curufin to his formal reception room, leading him instead his private sitting room, and he doesn't bother to summon a servant but instead goes around the sumptuously decorated room lighting candles himself. Curufin doesn't offer to help. He stands by the door and watches the warm candlelight add another layer of gilt to his cousin's hair.

The blue-glowing lampstones his father invented are more practical, but Curufin must admit that sometimes candles are more appealing. Finrod lights unnecessarily, ridiculously many of them until the whole room glows softly, and the king most brightly of all the golden things.

'Do not think that I do not appreciate your admiration, but I must say, there are times when I think you spend too little time thinking about your wife and too much time looking at me', says Finrod serenely as he returns to Curufin, laying down the last candle on a low cupboard beside the door.

Curufin is taken aback but hastens to hide it behind his practised mask of mocking amusement, and to answer Finrod with equal frankness and equanimity. 'Why would I think of my wife when she wants nothing to do with me, and is half a world away besides?'

'Ah.' A beatific smile. 'Do forgive me, I forgot that you did not part on the best of terms. The memory of it must pain you.'

Amazement at how wrong he has been fills Curufin's mind, for it seems that Finrod is not as content with Curufin's presence and behaviour as he has appeared to be, and that he has not lost the Noldorin fire that in their youth used to simmer in him, deep beneath the surface but still there.

This pleases Curufin greatly; a Finrod offering to trade barbs is a much more tolerable Finrod than one who seems nothing but gentle and wise and serene.

'The memory of my wife pains me no more than the memory of your sweetheart refusing to come with you must pain you', he answers, with a decidedly less beneficent smile than his cousin's. He doesn't like to speak of his wife, not even to think of her, in truth. But Finrod need not know that.

He is pleased to see that his words have the desired effect: Finrod flushes and appears discombobulated. _You should not play this game with me, cousin,_ Curufin thinks, smiling more widely, _for you are a novice at it and I a master._

'We were not married', replies Finrod defensively.

'Oh, but that is no excuse. You were betrothed, and even for the law-abiding Vanyar, there was no law against getting married quickly and then coming to Beleriand together. Just think of it. Had Amárië come with you, you might have your own son ruling by your side instead of that milksop boy of your brother's. Would that not be lovely?'

'It might be. Then again, fathers and sons do not always live in harmony, do they? And it can be a cause of great grief for the father.'

Finrod bows his head of gold and removes his crown, a plain, simple thing compared to the magnificent necklace that adorns his throat. He sets it down on the cupboard next to the candle with a careless motion; as the crown clatters down, for a moment its smooth golden surface reflects the single flame and turns into a sea of fire.

Running a hand through the long fall of his hair, his composure restored now while Curufin seethes, the king continues, 'I am sorry to have seen a rift developing between you and Celebrimbor lately. Perhaps it will console you to know that I have given him much good advice concerning you.'

They are standing quite close to each other now; Finrod's eyes are on Curufin's, calm on furious. Curufin takes a step closer and Finrod doesn't back away; Curufin lunges, grabs him by the necklace and pushes him against the door.

Blue eyes showing nothing but mild curiosity, Finrod doesn't fight back or shout out to the guards just outside the door.

' _I think_ that you spend too much time with my son', Curufin says, trying not to notice how warm the jewels and gold are and how soft is his cousin's skin under his fingers.

'Or perhaps you spend too little.'

Curufin tightens his hold, and a single drop of blood appears on the fine throat amidst the gemstones and the gold.

'It seems that there are sharp points in the works of the Naugrim', he observes. Finrod is perfectly motionless now, though he still doesn't look scared.

 _Hit me, curse me, push me away, pull me closer – do anything other than look at me with such dispassion,_ Curufin exhorts in his mind.

'Few things are beautiful without any hard or dangerous edges', Finrod replies, and Curufin cannot help but agree. After all, it seems that even Finrod is not without them.

It makes him all the more fascinating to Curufin. He picks up the drop of blood on his fingertip and tells Finrod that red suits him. 'You should wear it more it often.'

'Red suits you too', Finrod says and raises a hand to stroke the scarlet silk of Curufin's sleeve close to where Curufin's fingers still hold their tight grip on the Nauglamír. 'Which is fortunate for you, since you would wear it anyway in memory of your father. Finrod the Faithful I have been called, but you were far more faithful to your father than I to mine.'

Finrod slides his hand to Curufin's, not to pull it away but in a touch as soft as a lover's; Curufin lets go of him suddenly, and Finrod takes a step to the side, slowly enough to imbue it with his innate grace and make it look like he's still not trying to escape though he has every reason to.

'You still are faithful to Fëanáro, are you not, Atarinkë? As much as you can be, things being as they are.'

Curufin realises that Finrod only stepped away to land the final blow from a safe distance, his words armed with the language of their youth.

Curufin has no answer to give but for a look of anger and hatred.

'I think it best that we postpone our discussion until tomorrow, don't you?' Finrod asks, and one of his hands flits to his throat and the faint bruises forming there. He draws it away quickly, but it has already revealed that his absolute calm is only a facade.

It brings a rush of satisfaction to Curufin, and he is able to summon a smile, bright and joyless. 'I agree, my lord.' It easy to grant Finrod the title at this moment when it cannot sound like anything but mockery.

Finrod nods, and another drop of blood appears on his throat and stains a golden curlicue of the necklace, drawing Curufin's eye.

Finrod's next words make his gaze snap back to the king's face in fury.

'Goodnight, Curufinwë. Give Tyelperinquar my regards if by chance you happen to see him before I do.'

A heartbeat passes in tense silence, and then Curufin turns and leaves without a word.

* * *

 _I should never have gone to his rooms_ , Curufin tells himself when he makes his way to his own chambers. _If I spoke with him only in public places, something like that could not happen._

He is not entirely pleased with this thought, nor is he pleased to find his brother in his room.

'I see you've returned from the scouting trip', he says irritably and strips off the heavy overrobe and rich jewellery that are the trappings of the court and now chafe him, though most of the time he quite enjoys their splendour.

Lounging in front of the fire petting his huge hound, Celegorm grins at Curufin. 'I see you haven't missed me.'

'You missed a council meeting today.'

'I doubt there was anything that required my contribution in particular. Or was there?'

'No.' Curufin thinks of the plans he still needs to discuss with Finrod, then pushes those thoughts aside. 'Did you see Celebrimbor on your way in?'

'No, I didn't.' Celegorm stretches luxuriously, looking like a big dog himself lying on the bearskin before the fireplace. Curufin eyes with distaste the muddy foot and paw prints leading there.

'I take it you haven't seen him today, then', Celegorm states when he finishes his stretching.

'I didn't go to the forges today. I haven't seen him for days, actually. I've been busy working with our cousin.' Curufin takes a seat in a comfortable chair and thinks of what he should have said to Finrod before he left. Leaving the last word to someone else never pleases him.

'You shouldn't let him get to you like that', Celegorm says. His posture is still relaxed and his scratching of Huan's ears seems absent-minded, but his pale eyes are watchful.

'It's that damned serenity of his, how he maintains it even when provoked. I know it is childish, but it makes me want to test the limits of his patience…'

Curufin knows that Celegorm will never rebuke him for being less than diplomatic so it is not so difficult to confess things like this to his brother, though he would not speak thus to anyone else.

He is surprised to see a mild grin of amusement appear on Celegorm's fair face. Celegorm says wryly, 'I meant your son. But it applies to Finrod as well, I suppose. Don't let him get under your skin.'

Curufin shakes his head. 'I'll keep enough of a distance from now on that he can't.'

He says no more and Celegorm doesn't ask, but his gaze dwells on his brother for a long while, curious and assessing.

Curufin doesn't notice it. He stares into the fire and the yellow-red flames remind him of blood on gold, of the flame of a candle reflected on a crown laid aside so carelessly.

* * *

 _ **A/N:**_ _If Curufin's attitude to Finrod and his equanimity reminded some regular readers of mine of Curufin's behaviour in the early chapters of Sparks fly out, well, what can I say? He has a type. (Not that this story is necessarily connected to Sparks fly out and other stories where Netyarë appears. You can decide for yourselves whether she is the wife Curufin doesn't like to think about.)_


	7. Amrod & Amras

_**Day 6, Amrod & Amras**_

 _ **Summary:**_ _As children they fight with each other and later they fight side by side, until the end._

 _Three short, thematically connected pieces about Amrod and Amras and their bond of brotherhood through centuries._

 _ **Length:**_ _~2,400 words_

 _ **Some keywords:**_ _Genre: gen; family, Fëanor being good dad until he isn't, Oath of Fëanor, Kinslayings, angst, emotional hurt/comfort, hope_

 _ **Warnings: s** ome canon-typical violence and mentions & discussion of blood_

 _ **Fëanorian week prompts:** childhood, twin, regrets_

 _ **A/N** **:** Tolkien's 'canon' is at its messiest when it comes to Amrod and Amras so one has to choose what to use. For this fic, I'm choosing to believe that a) Amrod=Pityafinwë (son no. 6) and Amras=Telufinwë (son no. 7); b) neither twin died at Losgar; c) both were somewhat reluctant about their father's revenge-quest-turned-kinslaying, Amras especially._

 _The first part is simple family interactions in childhood, fairly fluffy; the second one has blood; the third one has weariness and a strange kind of hope. Like Maedhros' story, this fic explores how things change and yet stay the same across centuries._

 _I use the Quenya names Pityafinwë/Pityo and Telufinwë/Telvo to keep track of which twin does what while in Valinor, though they call each other Ambarussa._

* * *

 **TRIPTYCH**

 _ **I – Tirion – An early fight**_

A sudden cry of pain and the following loud sobbing from the twins' room startles Fëanáro in his study, absorbed as he was in his task of writing down recent discoveries. He sighs, lays down his quill and hurries to see what has upset one of his youngest sons. Nerdanel is away from home, so the task is his by default.

He comes to a sudden stop at the door of the large, airy bedchamber that the twins share, for the floor is scattered with small objects. Then a child crashes into his legs from behind: it seems that the unhurt twin has also come to see what is wrong with his brother.

Fëanáro bends down to pick up the boy now clutching his leg. It is Telufinwë, which is interesting since he is usually the clumsy one prone to hurting himself. Carrying one child he negotiates his way across the messy room to see to the other little redhead crying in front of a tall armoire.

'What is it, Pityo? What happened?' Fëanáro crouches down and balances Telvo on his thigh until he has swept enough of the floor clean with his hand that he can sit down and pull both of the boys to his lap.

While he calms the distressed twins – when one is upset, so is soon the other – and makes sure that Pityafinwë has no serious injuries, Fëanáro absent-mindedly catalogues the items littering the floor.

 _Artificial crystals deemed not to be of high enough quality and given to the twins as playthings, parts of their toys and puzzles, small paintbrushes, a few chestnuts and acorns, and many delicate metal pieces… are those from Carnistir's recently rejected project?_

He keeps questions and admonishments inside until the Ambarussar have quieted, only sniffling a little now and no longer clinging desperately to each other and to their father's tunic.

'How did you hurt yourself, Pityo?' Fëanáro asks again.

'I fell.'

'Did you fall because your room is very messy?'

A nod. 'I stepped on a crystal and it hurt and I jumped and then I hit my head on the cupboard.'

'The armoire', Fëanáro corrects. 'I see. And why are there crystals and many other things on the floor?'

Neither boy answers him and both avoid looking at their father, gathering from his tone that he is not happy with the state of their bedchamber.

'Pityafinwë, Telufinwë, look at me', Fëanáro orders them, and two pairs of abashed blue-grey eyes gaze up at him. 'You have been told to clear away your things after playing, and you should know better than to let your room get this messy. As Pityo has just learned, it's not just because tidiness is nice, it is also so that no one gets hurt by the mess.'

'Yes, father', both mutter obediently at first, but then Pityafinwë's wilfulness raises its head.

'It was Ambarussa who left the crystals on the floor. It was his fault I was hurt', he declares.

'And you took apart Carnistir's clockwork and left _that_ on the floor. And the acorns!' Telvo shouts, thoroughly incensed by his twin's betrayal.

Fëanáro smothers his own irritation with a sigh. When his two youngest sons aren't fiercely protecting each other, they are fighting just as furiously. He raises his voice again just as the boys are about to start flinging items from the floor at each other.

'You are clearly both to blame', he says in a voice that brooks no opposition. 'Now, Pityo is fine apart from a few bruises that will heal soon, so all will be well. But from now on you will keep the floor clear so nothing like this happens again, and right now you are going to tidy up this room and put everything in the right place. Together.'

'I'm not doing anything with _him_.' Pityo dares to mumble words of resistance, and his father shoots him a firm look.

'If you cannot work together to keep your shared room clean, perhaps it is time to consider separate bedchambers. After all there are many empty rooms–' Fëanáro stops at once when he sees how the boys pale at his words, Pityo hurrying back to Telvo to clutch his hand.

The sight cannot but melt Fëanáro's sternness away; he didn't mean his words as a threat, yet they clearly were the worst horror imaginable to the twins. 'We don't have to do that', he says to them, his voice softer now.

'No', says Pityo and starts picking up crystals and cogs and acorns. 'Because we will clean up. I'm sorry, father. Sorry, Ambarussa.'

'Sorry, Ambarussa', mutters Telvo as well.

Fëanáro fetches a basket from a shelf for the little redheads to gather the items into. 'You are stronger together than apart', he tells his youngest sons while he supervises their tidying. 'Always remember that in moments of dissent.'

* * *

 ** _II – Alqualondë_** _ **–**_ ** _The first battle_**

They fight side by side, and back to back, when stealing turns into killing. The few seconds when Telufinwë cannot see Pityafinwë and thinks him lost are the worst moments of the entire battle, worse than when an arrow misses him by a fraction of an inch, worse than when the first mariner falls by his sword, cursing the Noldor with his last breath, blood flowing from his mouth along with the curses.

'Ambarussa!' Telufinwë screams as loud as he can, terrified that his shout will be lost among the chaos and clamour of battle. He reaches out to his twin with all of his being.

 _Here_ , he receives, and then hears, 'Here', and Pityafinwë is by his side again. 'I had to go help Cáno', Pityo explains while raising his tall shield to deflect arrows. 'But I wouldn't go far from you, I promise.'

* * *

The next hard moment comes when the battle is over. The Noldor led by Telufinwë's father have emerged victorious but the victory tastes of blood and horror and pain to Telufinwë, though he is unhurt save for bruised ribs and small cuts.

When Fëanáro ushers his most loyal followers onto the ships, his youngest son turns his back to his stern-faced father and brothers and, kneeling on the pier, retches into the sea.

Pityafinwë is by his side in a second, strong arms enveloping Telvo and keeping him safely moored.

'Just breathe', he tells Telvo, and if his voice trembles it is despite his best efforts.

Telvo breathes, and when he has breath enough to talk he says to his twin, 'I want to go home.'

Telvo's hoarse, teary voice twists Pityo's stomach and makes him tremble more, but he tightens his grip on him and drags him up, their combined strength keeping them standing.

'We can't turn back, not after this. We are bound by blood and Oath both now', Pityo tells his little brother – always his little brother, if only by a few minutes – because he has to.

He lays his bloody gauntlet on Telvo's cheek and Telvo does the same to him, and they lean their foreheads together for a moment.

When their father calls to them a short while later Telufinwë follows his twin to the ship and doesn't look back, not like he did when they rode away from Tirion.

* * *

Later they scrub away the blood from their swords and armour below deck on a ship that is being tossed and turned by the waves. The violent motions make Telufinwë think that their scrubbing may be unnecessary, for Uinen might soon wash away the Telerin blood with salt water.

'Oh Valar, it is up to my elbows', Telufinwë hears his twin mutter at his side as Pityafinwë rubs at his bracer with a wet cloth, wasting precious drinking water to wash away the proof of their sin. 'No, not the Valar, it is no use for us to invoke them now, is it? Ambarussa…' Pityo lets out a choked noise that sounds remarkably like the hysterical laughter Telvo has heard inside his own head for a while now.

This time it is Telvo who lays a firm hand on his brother's arm: this is the first crack in Pityo's veneer of strength since the battle, and it marks Telvo's turn to be the brave one.

'It is all right; we are safe now', he tells Pityo.

Objectively this is a lie, of course, since the ocean itself is doing its best to kill them. But Pityo knows what he means, what his twin says silently without words. _We are together; we are alright_.

Pityo takes a deep breath, and Telvo lets go of his arm and returns to cleaning away the stubborn red spatters. _Who'd have thought it dries so fast_ , he thinks, careful not to share the thought with his twin.

'I promise I am not panicking anymore, but Ambarussa, we are up to our elbows in blood', says Pityo after a moment. And then, quietly so that none of their other brothers can hear, 'I am glad that mother didn't come. That she didn't see us like this.'

Telufinwë nods, and he scrubs and scrubs, all the world around him red and raging except for the familiar presence beside him.

* * *

 _ **III – East Beleriand**_ ** _–_** _ **The last battle**_

It was the middle of a bitter winter the last time they prepared to storm a settlement whose inhabitants had done them no harm, and this time it is autumn, so harsh and cold that it might as well be winter already.

Amrod and Amras should be making preparations, but though the day has already passed into afternoon, they haven't made much headway.

'I am tired of waging war', Amras says, closing his eyes and leaning heavily against the back of his chair in the room he shares with his twin now that they are no longer lords.

Going to battle again feels like an inevitability, though, like it has felt every time, starting with that first shedding of elven blood in the docks of Alqualondë. In the end, until the end, Amras will follow his older brothers like he always has.

'Maybe this is the last battle.'

Amras opens his eyes at Amrod's quiet words and lets out a bitter little sound that doesn't deserve the name of a laugh. He reminds Amrod, 'There is only one Silmaril in the Havens. Even if we capture it there are two left, and they are in Morgoth's keeping.'

'Still.' Amrod stares out the window, yet Amras feels that his twin doesn't see the yard strewn with wet leaves but something much farther away.

'Still what?' Amras prompts, feeling discomfited all of a sudden. Amrod is not prone to frequent visions like some, but he has vague forebodings sometimes. An inheritance from their mother, probably.

'Still, maybe, somehow, this will be the last battle for us.' Amrod turns back to his brother and smiles, more radiant than the pale autumn sunlight. 'So that afterwards we can lay aside our swords and only ever take up bow and spear for hunting.'

'I would like that.' Surprised and comforted, Amras smiles back at his brother. 'And we will go into this battle as we have gone to all that came before.'

Amrod nods. 'Side by side, as always.'

Amrod goes to stoke the fire, and Amras is struck by the resemblance, half-forgotten because it has been too painful, between his twin and their mother. Face flushed from the warmth of the fire, dark auburn hair in a simple braid, dressed in deep blue as Nerdanel liked to do, Amrod seems to have very little of their father and much of their mother in him.

For once it is a comforting thought, and Amras grows relaxed and sleepy as he lazily watches his brother bustle around the room, gathering things and packing saddlebags. _I will rest awhile, then come help you_ , he thinks at Amrod, who sends back thoughts of reassurance. _Take your time_.

So Amras's thoughts are free to wander again, and they wander back to the parent he left behind when he followed his father to war.

'Mother loved autumn days like this', he says. 'When it was cold and clear.'

Amrod glances out the window again. 'It is colder here than it was there, and the light is different, but the turning of seasons still feels the same somehow. Yes, mother would have liked this day.'

They haven't spoken of their mother for years, and they speak no more of her now. Amrod returns to packing and Amras settles back in his hard-backed chair, glad of having learnt long ago to be comfortable in uncomfortable places. Soon he drifts back into that land between wakefulness and sleep where thoughts arrive that the waking mind would banish.

The thoughts are of home. He has not had home other than his brothers for a long time, and even that has been disappearing piece by piece along with the deaths of Celegorm, Caranthir and Curufin as well as the absence of anything like a smile on Maedhros's scarred face since the battle of tears, and the silence that more and more often reigns where Maglor's powerful voice and sweet harping used to echo.

Amrod at least is as he always was, if a little quieter. Amras is indescribably grateful for it, for he would be truly homeless if he lost his twin, whether to an elven or orcish blade or to despair. They are to each other the thing that keeps the other one afloat and awake and alive, have been ever since the first time they washed blood off their hands.

They have done that so many times that it became easy routine centuries ago but the crimson dreams afterwards have never stopped, the ones from which Amras wakes screaming for mercy, for his twin, for his mother.

 _Oh, mother_. The more weary Amras becomes of his father's irrevocable Oath, the more he misses his mother. Slipping towards sleep now, he remembers her gentle smile; it was trembling and teary when she bid them goodbye…

 _One day, mother, one way or another, we will come home to you, though all the powers deny us that right. We have defied them for centuries, and we will defy them in this._

* * *

 **A/N:** This was the first fic I wrote where Amrod and Amras are more than supporting characters and it was an interesting process to develop personalities for them since we know so little about them.

Do let me know what you thought about my take on them! :)


	8. Fëanor & Nerdanel

_**Day 7, Fëanor & Nerdanel**_

 _ **Summary:**_ _Fëanor runs into someone on a solitary journey and finds he doesn't mind the company._

 _ **Length:**_ _~3,200 words,_ _ **Rating:**_ _K+_

 _ **Some keywords:**_ _romance, first meeting, meet cute_

 _ **Fëanorian week prompts:**_ _travelling, marriage_

 _ **A/N:**_ _I've wanted to write about Nerdanel and Fëanor's first meeting for a while so I did that for today. Tolkien says of Nerdanel that '[i]n her youth she loved to wander far from the dwellings of the Noldor, either beside the long shores of the Sea or in the hills; and thus she and Fëanor had met and were companions in many journeys' (HoME 10)._

 _Fëanor and Nerdanel are barely more than teenagers here._

* * *

 **Once upon a journey**

The first time they meet they startle each other, for neither was expecting to meet anyone. Both have travelled for days with no other company than the song of summer birds and the furtive movements of small animals in the undergrowth.

Fëanáro sees her first, a rather long time before she sees him. From very far away he can only tell, from disturbances in the water and the glittering of waterdrops in the air, that there is something moving in the river ahead of him. He wants to see what kind of an animal it is and he doesn't want to make it bolt so he walks closer along the riverbank with quiet steps, careful not to shift the earth and cause small rockslides into the river.

He doesn't think for a second that it could be another person since to his knowledge no one else comes to this part of the land, this rocky patch of near-barren wasteland between the mountains and the sea, far north of Alqualondë and other settlements of the Falmari. He hasn't seen another person for days, and when he realises the figure in the river is one of his kind, he stands frozen in place in amazement.

Not least because it's unmistakably a woman and, as could be expected from someone striding into a stream, she is naked. No, not naked, he realises after a second. Nearly naked, clothed but only in a undyed linen shift that clings to her form, wet from the splashing of water. She seems to be splashing about more than is strictly necessary, reminding Fëanáro of his own joy at finding a river or lake to swim and bathe in after a long day, or indeed many days, of travelling.

Half of him is saying that he needs to do something other than just stare – to leave, or to call out to her in greeting, probably while covering his eyes – but the other half, the ever-curious half that alternately gets him into trouble and into new discoveries, is busy studying the woman in the wide but shallow river.

He can see little of her face for she is not facing him, and the long curtain of her unbound, curling hair swirls around her while she splashes. It is an unusual colour, he notes with interest, brown shot through with redder strands. He knows few Noldor with hair that colour, though the hair of the famed smith Mahtan who he soon hopes to apprentice for is even redder–

Suddenly the woman is reaching down to pull off her shift, and before Fëanáro can do more than think oh no, she has turned around just enough that she will likely see him.

Desperately he looks around for a place to hide, but there is neither time to hide nor cover on the rock-strewn bank.

Feeling unusually sheepish and hating it, Fëanáro raises a hand in greeting to the very startled-looking woman.

Neither of them says nothing for a while, both studying the other. Fëanáro fears he is blushing, though he is the one fully clothed and she the one standing in a river in nothing but sodden undergarments. And she is as young as he is, just a girl. Nevertheless, once the first moment of startlement has passed, she stands there calmly, has turned to fully face him now, her hands bunched in the hem of her shift slowly letting go.

The calm gaze, the small tilt of the head crowned by russet curls… Fëanáro finds himself the first to utter words.

'Forgive me', he says, raising his voice to cover the distance. 'I didn't think I'd find anyone here. I did not mean to spy on you.'

'I didn't expect to encounter anyone either', the girl replies, and Fëanáro almost flinches at hearing the words of another after so many days of no elven language but his own travelling songs.

His merciless eyes that are always assessing the worth and beauty of things tell him now, after a few more moments' study, that she is not beautiful. Her face lacks the absolute symmetry that marks a perfect beauty, her mouth is too wide as are her brows, and though her ruddy, freckled complexion goes well with her hair, it is hardly fashionable.

Still he has a hard time keeping reluctance out of his voice when he turns away from her and says, 'I'll leave you to bathe in peace.'

'I don't mind you staying', the girl says. Fëanáro turns back with wide eyes and stares at her again.

Now she is blushing, her composure shattered. 'I did not mean – for you to stay while I bathe. But I wouldn't mind company for the evening. We could share a campsite if you want.'

He had meant to keep going for a couple of hours longer, but the idea of staying in the girl's company is appealing. He must be missing civilisation more than he thought.

'I would like that', he replies.

'Very good', she says, and smiles. Her smile is an interesting thing, a little crooked and very gentle. 'Would you get a fire started while I wash my hair? It gets cold this far north, and it would be lovely to dry off by an already roaring fire.'

Fëanáro doesn't like people telling him what to do, but the girl's reasons are sound enough. And he still has some vegetables and mushrooms, gathered before the country became barren, in his pack. They would make good dinner for two as a soup, and to make soup he needs a fire anyway.

'I will build a fire', he promises.

She points to the direction where she has chosen a campsite and left her things and Fëanáro heads that way.

He finds her campsite, gathers firewood – mostly dried branches of the low bushes that are the only thing that grows here in abundance – and has a fire going and the soup bubbling over it by the time the girl returns, dressed in her damp shift again. Fëanáro realises that her clothes are here in a pile by her pack and bedroll, and that he doesn't know her name.

He can ask her for it later. Now he suggests that he should go to the river to wash the worst dirt of the journey off himself while she dresses. He almost succeeds in not blushing while making the offer.

'Take your time', the girl says. 'The water is lovely. I can watch your… is that soup?'

'Yes. There should be enough for both of us.'

The girl smiles her thanks; Fëanáro finds his towel and goes to the river.

He does take his time bathing. The water is lovely, it is true, but he is also determined to make himself fit for company since he is to have more than fireflies as companions for the night, and it has been days since he last found either the patience or a suitable body of water to wash properly.

'I'm Fëanáro', he tells her when he gets back to camp.

'Prince Fëanáro.' She inclines her head in a small gesture of respect.

Of course she would know who he is. It is something of a disappointment anyway.

'Not here in the wild.' He squeezes water out of his hair. 'Just Fëanáro.' He finds it pleases him.

'Very well then, Fëanáro.' Nerdanel stirs the soup, takes a taste. 'I'm Nerdanel, and I think the soup needs a moment longer.'

They sit there around the fire, on their bedrolls for the ground is cold and stony, and she asks him why he has come this far north.

'I am tracking the change in stone type. And looking for new minerals – few of our people have come this far, so it is likely I might find some. I already found a few, but so far nothing that seems useful. I'll have to do experiments with them, though. Of course.'

'Of course', she echoes.

'And why are you here, what is the purpose of your travelling?' For she must have one. It's a very long journey to this far north, close to the wastes of Araman; no one comes here on an idle stroll. Fëanáro is impressed with her courage and determination that she has come all this way alone. And with her hair that in the firelight glows with red and gold…

'I am looking for new shapes.'

'New shapes?' Fëanáro repeats, bemused, and nervous that he might discover that she is in spite of all appearances a silly girl pursuing empty fancies.

'For my sculpture.' Nerdanel has been combing her hair with her fingers and now tames it into an over-the-shoulder braid, restraining its red-tinged glory. 'I want to be a sculptor, you see, and I am always looking for new shapes to include in my works. Unfamiliar landscape works well as inspiration.'

'Do you work with clay, or with stone?'

'Both, and I can cast metal as well. I use all three materials for statues.'

Fëanáro is ever more impressed with her.

'You seem surprised', Nerdanel says in the manner of one who has often had to see the same surprise on people's faces when she tells them her chosen profession.

'I am, for as you must know, few women work with metal and stone. Yet I am delighted to discover one such woman in this northern wildness.'

Nerdanel's smile tells him that his astonishment has been forgiven, not that he had been seeking forgiveness. He simply said what was true, what he felt. 'You may have heard that I am also interested in learning smithwork. Well, to learn more of it. I have some skill already.'

'So I have heard. I myself have much to learn, as well, though my father has been teaching me all my life. He never treated me any differently from my brother.'

Fëanáro would ask her who her father is, in case he has heard of him, but at that moment they discover that their soup is ready and need to busy themselves with the preparations required for eating a meal in the wildness.

They have no trouble finding things to talk about while they eat. It turns out that they took very different routes to end up here in the same spot, so they share with each other all discoveries they made. Fëanáro takes the samples he has gathered out of his pack and shows them to her, and her every comment and the way she turns the pieces of mineral in her hands shows how much she already knows and that she wants to learn more; Fëanáro delights in her curiosity.

After they finish eating and Nerdanel heartily thanks Fëanáro for the meal they go down to the river together to wash the few dishes they used. When Fëanáro passes cups to Nerdanel he notices that her hands are as calloused as his.

Few would want to write songs about the loveliness of her face, but there is much in her to admire, Fëanáro thinks, based on their short acquaintance. She seems independent and capable, smart and inquisitive, and there is a certain kind of beauty, one he appreciates, in her hands that are as strong and sure as a smith's, and in the way she holds herself with confidence but no arrogance.

And she has come alone far into the unknown regions of Aman. Though she seems glad to found unexpected company, Fëanáro is certain she would have been just fine on her own.

They return to the campsite in companionable silence, gathering a little more firewood along the way. Still thinking of long journeys taken alone, Fëanáro asks Nerdanel if she often comes this far.

'Not often, no', she replies. 'I have journeyed this far only once before, up into the mountains that time. Mostly I have explored the land around Aulë's halls where my family lives, but lately that land has begun to feel so small and familiar. So I am taking advantage of finally being old enough to be trusted to wander long distances alone.'

'My father used to be reluctant to let me go this far as well', Fëanáro says as he adds the new wood to the low-burning fire. 'But now he is so preoccupied with my stepmother and the new children, I doubt he even notices how long I'm gone.'

He doesn't bother to explain his unusual, complicated family to Nerdanel, for though she doesn't live in Tirion she is a Noldo and must know at least some things about the royal family.

Nerdanel says nothing, and after a moment Fëanáro raises his gaze from the fire and looks at her. There is in her eyes something soft but just far enough from pity that it doesn't enrage him; he will not tolerate pity even from clever girls he finds in rivers.

They just gaze at each other for a while through the flames, sitting on opposite sides of their shared campfire. After a longer moment Nerdanel says that her father worries about her still and tried to entice her to stay at home by setting her an interesting challenge with copper casting.

'Copper?' Fëanáro asks sharply, reminded again that he still hasn't asked her about her family. He thinks he might know her father's identity now: the best-known coppersmith among the Noldor is Mahtan who Fëanáro has already been reminded of today, for in addition to his work with the red metal he is famous for his hair, red like Nerdanel's.

'Yes, I am Mahtan's daughter', Nerdanel confirms.

'Then my father has written to yours, asking if I can be apprenticed to him.' Fëanáro finds that his mouth is a little dry. 'Did you not know that?'

'No.' Nerdanel draws her russet brows together. 'But then my father is a man of few words and doesn't like to talk about unfinished business. And I have been travelling for four weeks now. The matter must have not been settled when I left home.'

'My father's letter was sent just before I set out three weeks ago.' Fëanáro leans back, inexplicably relieved. Nerdanel hadn't known, hadn't been pretending anything.

'I really hope your father will accept me as an apprentice', he says. 'I believe he isn't the best only with copper but with stone as well, and supremely skilled with many other metals as well.'

'And you wish to learn to work them all?'

'Yes, I want to learn everything. I've been studying language lately, but that – that isn't enough. I want to learn to create something concrete, something shining and beautiful.' He tries not to blush, a little embarrassed about the passion in his voice but unwilling to apologise for it.

'My father is happy to teach those who truly want to learn', Nerdanel says. 'The only reason he might not take you on is that he already has several apprentices.'

'I would work the hardest of all. I may be a prince but I'm no stranger to hard work.'

'I believe that, and I can tell that from our conversations tonight that you certainly burn to learn. I will speak with him on your behalf when I get home if he hasn't already decided to accept you.'

'Thank you', says Fëanáro from his heart.

They keep talking about metal and stone and the things of beauty and usefulness that one can create out of them. The distant treelight is all silver now and the air is cool, but their merrily crackling little fire keeps the worst of the cold at bay. When the fire begins to burn low again both Fëanáro and Nerdanel dig cloaks from their packs and bundle up in them.

'The stars are so bright here', Fëanáro notes and lets himself fall slowly back to lie on the ground. The ground is covered in short, coarse grass, but he can't feel it through his thick cloak, and he enjoys looking up at the sky and letting starlight fill his universe.

It seems that Nerdanel feels the same way, for she walks around the fire and joins him on the grass. 'It is one of the best things in being so far away from all other lights', she sighs. 'One can begin to imagine, in a poor way at least, how it must have been for our people in Endórë before they followed Oromë to this land. How it was to live in starlight…'

'I have heard songs about that time but you are right, being here is a better inspiration for imagining it than any song.'

'I am glad that you happened to find me, even if it was in the middle of a river', Nerdanel says, a smile in her voice. 'I have been happy to travel alone, to discover that I can make my way this far from home on my own, but I have enjoyed our conversation so. And now, sharing the stars with you…'

Fëanáro has come to think of himself as a master of language but he finds it difficult to think of the right words to answer her. In the end he says simply, 'I am glad I found you as well.'

They gaze at the stars in silence for a while. Fëanáro enumerates the constellations in his head and thinks Nerdanel might be doing the same.

When he has gone through all the stars he tells her of a childhood project.

'I once made it my mission to learn the names of every star and constellation within a week without anyone teaching me, so I took a star chart and climbed up on the palace roof and taught myself. It wasn't easy to see the stars with all the treelight and the city lights around, though.'

'Did you still succeed in your mission?'

'Yes.' Fëanáro raises his hand and draws constellations in the air above him. 'It felt like such a big achievement.'

'Doesn't it anymore?'

'There are bigger things, I know now.' He rolls over to his front, ending up closer to Nerdanel, and turns to look at her, as intent on learning every freckle on her face as he once was to learn the stars.

'Like finding someone to gaze at the stars with?' she suggests in a quiet but steady voice.

'Yes.'

She turns to face him too, and their breaths mingle, and Fëanáro finds it far from unpleasant.

But he is displeased to find his heart beating fast and his fingers flexing restlessly, as if looking for something to touch, to mould. He believes in being brave, though, so he speaks again. It is not so hard when she looks like she is looking forward to listening to whatever he says.

'Nerdanel, will you travel together with me when we set out again in the morning?'

A small smile, like one hiding a secret, curves her lips. For once Fëanáro isn't in a hurry to learn a secret; he thinks he will discover it eventually, and that slowly searching will be a delight even greater than exploring new places.

'I will travel with you wherever you wish to go', she promises, and in that softly spoken promise Fëanáro feels like he already found the secret.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** Today is the last day of Fëanorian week, and this is the last of the stories I wrote for this week. It was a big project writing these eight stories, but also one I enjoyed immensely. Thanks for reading, and if you have enjoyed my stories, I would appreciate feedback :)  
_


	9. Curufin & Celebrimbor, chapter 2

**Ponds, puppies and paternal worries: Chapter Two**

 ** _Length:_** _~1,700 words, **Rating:** K_

 _ **A/N:**_ _I kept thinking about how it would go when Curufin's wife Netyarë came home in the evening and found out about Tyelpë's adventures, so I wrote a second chapter about that. This was posted on AO3 and my Tumblr already in May and I only realised now that I hadn't cross-posted it here._

 _Like the original fic, this new chapter is a little family scene that is a mix of fluff, light humour and very slight angst in the form of adjusting to parenthood. There is less Tyelko and more Netyarë though. Thanks to NelyafinweFeanorion for looking this over._

* * *

 **Chater II / Maternal worries**

Netyarë arrives home a little later than usual, just in time for dinner. She makes her way straight to the dining room, the bright sound of Tyelperinquar's voice that she hears already in the hallway bringing a smile to her face.

She loves her art deeply, which is why she hasn't given it up even during these early years of her son's life, but she loves Tyelpë more. The moment of coming home to him is the best part of her day: seeing the delight on his face always makes her heart constrict in overflowing joy tinged with a little pain.

 _Next week_ , she reminds herself. _Next week I'll be staying at home with him again while Curufinwë goes out to work_. Their system of alternating weeks taking care of Tyelperinquar works well for the most part.

'Mama!' Tyelpë shouts joyfully when she steps into the room. He would jump down from his chair if his father didn't stop him.

Netyarë drops a kiss on her husband's cheek and another on Tyelpë's and takes a seat on her son's other side.

'How was your day, Tyelpë darling? I see you've had a bath already.' Netyarë's gaze takes in Tyelpë's damp hair and clean clothes as well as Curufinwë's dishevelled appearance.

Her usually very neat husband's hair is a mess and his tunic seems damp in places, as do the rolled-up long sleeves of his undershirt. She doesn't wonder about his appearance for long, though, for she'd also noticed that Tyelpë doesn't seem quite all right. There are small cuts on his face, one of them bandaged, and a small bruise on the side of his jaw.

Before she can ask Curufinwë about the injuries, Tyelpë answers her question with effusiveness that reassures her that his high spirits, at least, are undamaged. 'I took _two_ baths today!' he announces proudly.

'Did you, sweetheart? Come here, sit in my lap for a while.' Netyarë's tone is light, but she is very careful when she lifts Tyelpë to her lap and goes over every graze and cut on her son.

Curufinwë wants to tell her that there's no need, that both he and Tyelkormo have already tended to Tyelpë, but this much he has learnt of parenthood: it is no use telling a mother not to worry for her child. She will only get angry with the father and sleep with her back turned to him.

Keeping his voice suitably nonchalant, he explains, 'The first bath was a mud bath in the garden pond. He scraped himself on the rocks in the bottom.'

Netyarë raises her brows as she deposits Tyelpë back in his own chair and encourages him to get back to eating his carrots. She strokes his hair softly and asks her husband quietly, 'How did he get in the pond? He's been very good so far about keeping away from there as we've told him to.'

Curufinwë bites his lip and admits, 'He was playing with Tyelko's puppies and ended up losing his balance when the playing got rough.'

'I see', Netyarë says, and Curufinwë is afraid that she does. 'Tyelkormo came for a visit, then. You know I don't mind that, Tyelpë enjoys his company and he loves playing with Tyelko's animals, but proper supervision is needed. Your brother isn't always very careful –'

'I know', says Curufinwë, gritting his teeth.

'– though I do appreciate that he gives his time and attention to our son. He's a good uncle in many ways.' Netyarë adds peas to Tyelpë's plate and directs him to eat them with a spoon rather than try to spear them with a fork and send them flying in all directions. Almost casually she asks, 'Where was Tyelpë's father when he fell into the pond?'

'Grandpapa's forge!' pipes up Tyelpë, startling his parents and reminding them that he is getting too old for them to have conversations over his head. 'He had to go to help grandpapa so uncle Tyelko and Huan and the puppies played with me in the garden. I got to ride Huan!'

'That must have been exciting', replies his mother gently while aiming an anything-but-gentle look at her husband.

Tyelpë explains all about his wonderful afternoon with his uncle and his hounds while his mother keeps shooting his father looks as dirty as the ones Curufinwë gave his brother after coming home and finding Tyelpë injured and smelling of horse liniment. Curufinwë hadn't expected anything less from her.

As soon as Tyelpë stops chattering to draw breath, Netyarë says to Curufinwë in a low voice, 'We need to discuss you leaving him alone at home during a week when it's your turn to take care –'

Curufinwë interrupts her, something they both knew he would do. 'He wasn't alone, Tyelko was here.'

Netyarë strokes Tyelpë's cheek tenderly, her fingers carefully avoiding the bandage there. Without thinking about it Curufinwë finds himself saying he's sorry and then realises that he doesn't regret it, though apologies always taste foul on his tongue. It is both true and the most useful thing he could say to placate his wife.

'I thought about it, after I came home and found him – found that Tyelpë had fallen into the pond, and I've decided to make fewer visits to the forge while it's my week home. I don't want us to have to reconsider our decision to not have a nurse for Tyelpë. I still want us to raise him ourselves.'

Netyarë studies her husband for a moment and, finding no pretence in his eyes, leans back in her chair in relief. 'I am glad to hear that.'

Tyelpë is staring up at them, brows furrowed. 'What are you glad about, mama?'

'That I am here, at home with you and papa.' She drops another kiss on Tyelpë's head and finally picks up her own knife and fork to begin eating.

'Did you not have as good a day as I did, then?'

'Probably not, Tyelpë dear. I had to deal with irritating people, and you only had to play with puppies.'

'What did lord Cammíron do today? More helpful suggestions?' Curufinwë knows of the infuriating habits of Netyarë's current client.

'Oh yes, he had many to make, several of them on parts of the painting I had already finished. It is truly remarkable that even after commissioning me several times, the man still doesn't understand that once a fresco has dried, it's final. I refuse to make any late changes by a different method.'

'You need to tell that idiot that you won't do any more paintings for him after this one.'

'I will avoid his commissions if I can. Tyelperinquar, don't fuss with your cup, just ask for more milk if you want it.' She fills his cup and continues, 'I'm relieved this week will be over soon. Tyelpë is much better company than a client who hovers while I paint and still doesn't make his suggestions in time.'

Tyelpë flashes a wide smile, warm and enchanting, much like his uncle Maitimo's smiles, or his mother's if his father is to be believed. 'I _am_ very good company.'

He is a little bewildered when both his parents laugh at his words, but he laughs along with them and then asks, 'What are we going to do next week, mama? Can we paint together again?'

'Of course we can', Netyarë promises, delighted that at least for now, Tyelpë is an eager student to her, even though he is so young that painting tends to be very messy. From all the interest he has shown towards his father's craft she has a feeling that once Curufinwë judges Tyelpë old enough that it is safe to take him along to the forge, it will be very difficult to get him out of there again.

'Can we paint puppies on my wall?' Tyelpë's voice returns her to the present from thoughts of the future.

'Are you bored of the bunny rabbits, then?' Curufinwë teases Tyelpë, and Netyarë too, for he had told her that subject matter was too whimsical even for a child's bedroom. He hadn't really tried to stop her painting the rabbits though, unusually gentle as he was during her pregnancy.

Tyelpë scrunches up his nose as if he was a bunny rabbit himself. 'The rabbits are nice, but puppies are nicer. Even when they lick my face and it tickles.'

'I can paint puppies on your wall, alongside the rabbits perhaps. We'll make plans for it together next week, sketches and watercolours. Do promise me though, darling boy, that you won't splash with the watercolours as much as you splashed tonight in the bath.' Netyarë throws a teasing look at her husband whose shirt is still damp.

'But there were whales in the tub', says Tyelpë very solemnly, and Netyarë purses her lips, trying not to laugh at his remarkable imagination.

She knows that there is a serious conversation she and Curufinwë need to have later tonight – in spite of his already having promised to make fewer impromptu visits to his father during his childcare weeks, she still wants to make sure that he is committed to taking care of Tyelpë.

Yet it is difficult to worry about that now, seated next to her happy son and smiling husband. In spite of small grievances she feels blessed by all the powers, blessed with both family and work that she loves.

Tiredness and happiness combine into a quiet relaxation while she eats her dinner, lets her husband pour her wine and promises Tyelpë that she'll include Huan in the fresco, too.

'Good!' Tyelpë beams. 'Because he looked after the puppies today as well as uncle Tyelko looked after me.'

'Better, I think, since none of them ended up in our pond', Curufinwë mutters under his breath, and then chokes on his food when Tyelpë asks, 'Can I have a puppy?'

Netyarë pounds on her husband's back and smiles at her son.


	10. Caranthir, a sequel

**This is a sequel to _The way you touch me,_ chapter 4 of this work, but should be enjoyable also without reading that one first. Written for Fëanorian week 2018.  
**

 **Summary:** After a few months of stolen moments, Caranthir and Cedweril go on another of their playful swimming trips and find themselves wanting more.

 **Some keywords:** romance, (re-)negotiating a relationship, implied sex and talk about sex but nothing remotely graphic, elf culture  & customs, life in first age Beleriand during the Long Peace

 **A/N:** The Noldorin and Sindarin views on sexuality, marriage etc. that Caranthir and Cedweril discuss here are not necessarily my firm headcanons on these matters, or my favourite interpretation of LaCE. They are what fit this fic well, so I used them here.

Caranthir curses in Sindarin again ( _Ai, rhaich_ ) because I find it difficult to choose English profanities for elves. Other Sindarin used here: _fae_ and _rhaw_ = equivalent to Quenya _fëa_ and _hröa_ = spirit and body.

* * *

 **The way you hold me**

The water is dark and close to still, reflecting the wispy clouds on the brilliant blue sky and the high wooded mountain slopes surrounding the lake. A few plumes of smoke rise from the fortress nestled into the mountainside and the town around it buzzes with activity, but on the short bit of rocky shore some way away from the fortress, there are no living creatures to be seen, and it is quiet.

The quiet is broken by an elf-woman walking briskly out of the trees clad in nothing but a knee-length linen shift, looking back at someone behind her. 'Come on, Caranthir!' she calls out, grinning. 'If you don't catch me now you never will. I am still faster than you in the water –'

'I would tackle you here if the ground wasn't so rocky', threatens the man that follows her out of the cover of trees. He is likewise clad in nothing but his undertunic, though he carries a long sword in one hand and a short dagger in the other.

'Then it is a good thing that it is.' Cedweril dances away from him, beaming at him still. 'Ah, but it is a beautiful morning. I am so glad that you could find time away from your duties to spend with me, my lord.'

'I thought I'd managed to convince you to stop calling me "my lord"', Caranthir grumbles, but adds, 'I always want to find time for you. It is only the dwarf-traders' visit that kept me away from coming with you here for the past two weeks.'

'I know, and I bear you no grudge for it. And you did visit me in my humble infirmary.'

They've arrived at the waterline, and Caranthir sets down his weapons by stabbing them firmly into the narrow sandy strip between water and rocky ground. Far enough from the water that they are not lapped at by the small waves, and close enough that he can grab them as soon as he gets out of the lake, if need be.

Then he turns to his companion who hasn't, despite her threats, sprinted into the water for him to try to catch, but is waiting for him with a smile still on her lips and the sun in her dark hair. He cups her cheek in his hand and kisses her, twining his other arm around her waist, holding her to him.

'I couldn't do this in the infirmary', he mumbles into her neck when they have to separate for breath.

'And that is why I like here on the lakeshore better', she replies, shivering from his touch. 'But, my dear, I think we should go into the water now or we will never get around to it.'

'Hmm', he replies, taking in the scent of her sun-warmed skin before raising his head and agreeing, 'Yes, we should'. And then he lifts her into the air and tosses her into the water.

Cedweril surfaces quickly, gasping from the sudden cold and sputtering from laughter. Caranthir grins in triumph and wades in to stifle her protestations with kisses. She allows him to, for a moment, and then wriggles out of his arms and swims away as fast as she can.

Her limbs warm quickly with the exercise and she enjoys the sensation of the cool water surrounding and supporting her. She has always loved swimming.

Caranthir follows her. He has become a better swimmer since they started coming to this quiet shore and swimming together, though she can still stay out of his reach if she wants to. She doesn't want to today, so they swim side by side for a while and then float on their backs like she has taught him, staring up at the sky together.

Cedweril closes her eyes and almost begins to grow sleepy in the sunlight and her own contentedness. It is good to be here together with Caranthir.

At length, Caranthir speaks of something he hasn't spoken before. Few of his people speak to Cedweril's of their life in that tree-lit land across the sea.

'When I was a child, the water where I learned to swim was warm even in winter', he says.

Cedweril considers her reply carefully. 'I find that hard to imagine. As you know, this lake often freezes over in the winter.'

'It was warmer there', Caranthir says. 'Winters were less like winters, more like… the absence of summer, of the growing season.' He is quiet for a while, and then says, 'Where we swam was a small lake inland close to where my mother's parents lived.'

'Did they teach you to swim?' Cedweril turns to look at him, taking care not to upset her balance.

Caranthir's smile relaxes to the neutral expression that Cedweril has learned is practically a smile for him. 'My brother did, mostly, while the adults were busy. Maitimo – Maedhros, I mean. Maglor wasn't old enough to be a good instructor, but he tried too. Celegorm, though, mainly distracted me by splashing water onto me.'

Cedweril wiggles her fingers, flicking a tiny amount of water at him, and smiles at his surprised expression. 'That sounds delightful', she comments. 'Like a good memory.'

'It is.' Caranthir's expression focuses suddenly, and he flips around in the water and starts swimming for the shore. 'Try and catch me, Cedweril', he calls over his shoulder. 'There must come a day when I am a faster swimmer, and it might be today.'

The time to reminisce seems to be over, Cedweril reflects as she begins to chase after him. She isn't too disappointed because while learning something of Caranthir's closely guarded youth was nice and felt like something important, she knows that when they reach the shore they'll make new memories, less innocent but no less pleasant to dream of on days to come.

Caranthir does his best to win the race, no doubt, since he never does anything half-heartedly, but Cedweril is still the first on the shore by the space of a few heartbeats.

'I swear, you must be a water-spirit of Ulmo masquerading as an elf-woman', Caranthir grumbles when they reach the shore.

Cedweril wrings water out of the hem of shift and laughs at him. 'You are not used to being bested at physical pursuits, are you, my lord?' As always, she uses the title teasingly.

Caranthir raises his brows. 'Not by elf-maidens whom I can easily swing across my shoulder.' He proceeds to do so and then, holding her in place with one hand, pulls his sword from the sand with the other hand. While Cedweril is still gasping from surprise, he tells her to take the dagger.

'Just let me down, Caranthir', she says between giggles. 'This is silly.'

'This is retribution for all of your teasing of me. Take the dagger, girl, before I drop you.'

'I know you wouldn't.' She reaches out carefully anyway. 'Move a little to the left.' She picks up the dagger and tells him to let her down.

'Not before we're in the forest.'

And as if this was all completely normal, he carries the sword and her carrying the dagger across the shore, sure-footed and steady-stepped even though the rocky ground must feel unpleasant under his bare feet and the additional weight he carries. He only lets her down once he reaches the spot where they left their clothes.

Cedweril hands him the dagger and he takes it and sets it down a few paces away together with the sword before returning to her. He kisses her once and then sorts out the tangles in her hair with his strong fingers that are always gentle with her.

Cedweril raises her hands to his hair to do the same though there is little there to untangle, for his hair is short; even when soaking wet, it doesn't even reach his shoulders. He has it chopped short every few months. The last time he wanted it done, he asked Cedweril to do it. While she cut it with careful snips of her sharpest scissors, she asked if he had always worn it so short. He replied that he first hacked it off, with a bloody dagger after a battle, after the first time it got into his eyes during fighting and put him in unnecessary danger.

To Cedweril, it sounded exactly like something he'd do.

Now she grabs his wrists and says, 'You are doing work that is doomed to come undone soon, Caranthir. Or are you not going to kiss me again and lay with me?'

'Of course I am, my impatient fair maiden.' Here in the quiet little forest, holding on to each other, warm with anticipation of what is to come – what always comes after they go swimming together – his eyes are brighter than stars and his cheeks are flushed as he gives her a real smile. She treasures those smiles more than the jewels he has given her.

There is something that has been bothering her, though. 'You keep calling me a maiden', she points out. 'And a girl. I am neither anymore. Surely you are aware of that, as you are the one responsible for my not being a maiden anymore.'

* * *

Caranthir sighs and rubs a hand down his face. He has been avoiding this conversation – not because he is afraid of it, but because he doesn't know what to say and has been waiting to find the right words. But it is possible they might never arrive, given the difference in his and Cedweril's cultures and upbringing. That difference sometimes causes a distance to suddenly appear between them, even when they had been close as can be just moments before. When it does, there is a temptation to create a physical distance as well. He refuses to give in to that temptation now, winding his arms around her waist and holding on to her.

'I never gave it much though before but to me, maiden is an unmarried woman', he says. 'And we are not married, though we have lain together. You told me that to your people, those two do not have to mean the same.'

'No, they do not', she replies. She does not fidget – she never does – but stays still in his hold, her fingers resting on his biceps and her gaze on his chest. 'To me, a maiden is an inexperienced girl. I am not that anymore though I am not a wife either.'

'I see', Caranthir says, adding this to the long list of blunders he has made with others who have different customs from his own. He has learned to learn from them, though, and he has learned to be curious about differences. He strokes Cedweril's back and asks, after analysing their interactions, 'What is it, more specifically, that bothered you about me calling you by that word?'

Cedweril thinks for a long moment. 'I suppose that hearing you call me a maiden makes me feel like our experiences together aren't important. That they don't count.'

'Cedweril', he says and grabs her chin, tipping her face up and making her meet his eyes. 'Look at me, don't be shy. I don't know how to deal with shyness from you. And – of course they count. The times we have lain together. They… I… I was as inexperienced as you were. I held on to the customs of my own people for a long time in this land. I wouldn't have given them up for something insignificant.'

'Good', Cedweril says. 'Because even though lovemaking doesn't necessarily mean marriage to my people, it is still a meaningful act.'

'I don't see how it could be otherwise', Caranthir says. The hand that was on her chin strays to her hair again, to the soft, dark strands that are curling gently now that they are damp rather than wet. 'It is… I give and share so much of myself with you when we make love. I don't see how I could not.'

What an odd word the Sindar use for it. _Make love_. It seems odd to Caranthir since the Sindar are the ones who think it possible and acceptable to separate the physical act of making love and the institution of marriage. In the world where Caranthir grew up, love, marriage and making love were inseparably woven together. But he left that world behind him, and he can discard its rules and customs as suits him.

It hadn't been a hardship to accept a new meaning of marriage when Cedweril asked him to, but it is growing harder rather than easier, every time, to part without any bond as soon as they leave the little forest that is their private refuge. It may be time to change again the pattern they have fallen into.

'It is meaningful to me too', Cedweril says. 'It is not like I imagined.'

'How is it different?'

'It is harder to let you go than I thought it would be.' She looks up at him, her clear grey eyes dark with emotion. 'And after every new time, it is harder.'

'Yes', he replies. 'Every time it is harder to go back alone, and every night my bed is cold, and every time I have to nod a polite greeting at you it feels wrong. I don't want to keep doing it.'

'I understand.' Cedweril drops her hands and pulls away from him.

He doesn't let her go. 'You _don't_ understand. _Ai, rhaich_. Cedweril. We have always been straightforward with each other, so let us be so now. I want more from you than these swimming trips and secret love-makings in the forest. When you asked me if we could be together without the formal celebrations and binding ties of the Noldor, I told you that we could, but I've realised that what we have now isn't enough.

'It is nearly autumn, and we want each other more than we did at the beginning of the summer, not less. I don't want to give you up –' he could say, _I cannot give you up for you have become as dear to me as any part of me_ , but he doesn't because his straightforwardness has its limits and those limits are at the border of sentimentality '– so I ask you to give me more. I want you to be mine every day. The only way I know that you could be is marriage, so I am asking you to marry me. By every last complicated Noldorin rite or any Sindarin one, I don't care, as long as you will be mine not only in my eyes but everyone else's too.'

Cedweril says, 'I am no high lady and I don't want you to make me into one.'

'I want you only as you are', Caranthir promises. 'I love you as you are. With your foul-smelling herbs, and your swift fingers that pierce skin and push bones back into place to heal my warriors, and your dedication to your work, and the way you hold me tight when I enter you. I would change nothing of you but to make you my wife.'

Though she smiles, her voice is solemn when she replies, 'I would happily be married to you by the rites of my people.'

'Good. Good.' In relief, Caranthir leans his forehead on hers. 'What do they entail? I have just realised that I have never witnessed a Sindarin marriage ceremony.'

'It is because it is private. No parents present, no jewels or rings exchanged, no large celebration except perhaps afterwards, if the couple wishes for it.' Cedweril leads him to the spot covered by soft moss where they had quite intentionally left their clothes.

'The marriage ceremonies of the Noldor were like that once upon a time, I believe', he says. 'But then we went West and found stability and wealth, built cities and came up with elaborate proceedings for every occasion. At the heart of a wedding, though, has always been the same thing.'

'The oaths.' The slight tremor in her voice tells him that she knows the weight that word holds for him.

He makes it explicit anyway. 'I have already sworn an oath of which I will never be free; I can swear no oath more binding than that.'

'I know', Cedweril says with surprising serenity. 'I know, Caranthir. I know of your oath, and I am willing to take whatever piece of you it leaves free. Even if that is only a few happy shared days.'

'Are you certain?'

She takes his hands into her own. 'A few days together is better than nothing. I had a brother once, Caranthir. He was betrothed but never married. He was waiting for the war to end for good, as he believed that the wisest course. His own end came before peace, and his beloved grieved all the same than if they had been married, but she never lived a day as his wife.'

'I didn't know', is all Caranthir can think to say.

'I never told you. Now.' Suddenly she is all business, the brisk, pragmatic healer-woman who caught his eye. 'Do you wish to say your oath first, or shall I?'

'You should. I should have one example to follow so that I don't make mine too Noldorin.'

Cedweril's lips twitch before she grows solemn again. 'Very well. Now, I know you had other names when you were young, but I will only use the one I know you by.' She glances at him, asking for approval, and he nods. 'Caranthir, I swear to you in the name of Eru All-father and all the powers that are below him, and by my own _fae_ and _rhaw_ , that I will love you and hold you as my own as long as there exists any of me to do so, until the breaking of the world.'

She is a smart one, his wife-to-be, Caranthir reflects as he looks into her eyes and squeezes her hands and composes in his mind his own oath out of the pieces of hers that he can use. She gave him many such pieces.

'Cedweril, I swear to you on my own _fae_ and _rhaw_ that I will love you and hold you as my own as long as there is anything of me that can do so.'

She smiles up at him, stars in her eyes that might be tears, and stands slightly on her toes to kiss him, and he kisses her back gently, lovingly. She deserves more than that promise that is so much less than what she gave him, but she chose to make hers first anyway, and Caranthir isn't selfless enough to not take what she offers. He'll leave that sort of self-sacrifice to others. This new oath does not lie heavy on his heart like the first one; it makes him feel light like he hasn't felt for a long time. Even if it is an illusion, it is a sweet one.

He'll do everything he can to make the days he has with her as happy as they can be, however many or few of those days there are to be.

They lay down on the soft moss and he kisses her all over until she is trembling and begging sweetly for more of him, and he gives her everything she asks, because here, now, he is hers.


End file.
